Tag: motel

The Trucker was a cunning and intelligent predator. The senses and skills associated with hunting were highly developed in him; he was excellent not only at killing but at avoiding danger. Some of this was innate, but some of it was forced on him by his lifestyle; running freight, as he did, he occasionally found himself re-running routes and stopping repeatedly in the same place over a period of time.

So when he got back to the town where his last kill had taken place, he was on high alert. He’d been gone several weeks—more than enough time for whatever kind of trouble the snuff of a methhead whoreboy stirred up to settle back down—but there was no sense being careless.

As he pulled into the oversized parking lot at the one truck stop in town, the Trucker decided he’d go out on the prowl. Who knows? Maybe it’d turn out to be safe.

And after all, he was hungry for meat.

It was a cold night. The buff killer was wearing a black Nike compression t-shirt with long sleeves. Tucked into the narrow waist of his clean but worn jeans, it clung tightly to his massive, heavily-muscled torso. Along with the black leather harness boots he sported, it was a warm enough outfit in the heated cab of his truck, but there was an icy wind blowing outside that would necessitate a little more protection. Reaching into the sleeper compartment, the Trucker drew out an aviator jacket in distressed black leather and slipped it on.

As he leaped down from the cab, his thick-soled boots hit the ground with a loud thump. Striding quickly across the cement lot, his wide-legged stance testifying to the massive package between his legs, he was the image of masculinity. When he reached the street, he turned left, heading in the direction of the gay bar he’d hit up last time. He’d poke around a little, make sure nothing suspicious was going on—then he’d be ready to hunt down some fagmeat and drain his hairy sack into it.

It was only a few blocks to the bar. Once he reached it, the Trucker found that there was a line at the door; a large poster announcing the presence of a locally famous DJ explained the crowd. The hardbodied killer paused—he had no intention of waiting in a line; too many potential witnesses would be given too much time to observe his appearance. He’d have to try elsewhere—

As he turned, he noticed a couple of boys standing at the far end of the building’s façade, near the unattended exit door. Despite the wind, they seemed in no hurry to join the line and escape into the warmth of the bar’s interior. Before he could take a step in their direction, a man exiting the bar paused and engaged the two boys in conversation. The Trucker was too far away to hear what was being said, but it was obvious that some kinda bargain was being struck. As if to prove his point, the older bar patron began walking swiftly away, the taller youth following in his trail.

So, then. A couple of boywhores who had decided to skip paying a cover charge and just pounce on random dudes as they were leaving the bar. One of them had managed to pick up a john, leaving the other for the Trucker. The grinning serial killer sauntered over to check out the lucky motherfucker.

When he got closer, the shock of recognition tingled through his muscular frame. The kid was short, his slim, firm, wiry body obvious in his tight black skinny jeans and dark blue Nike Air Jordans. It was impossible to tell what kind of shirt he was wearing under his gray fleece hoodie, but under the pointed hood his face was easily seen. Long curly hair so jet-black it almost gleamed blue was counterpointed by the deep liquid pools of his long-lashed, gazelle-like eyes, also deep black. The clear skin on the boy’s broad, youthful face had a dark, almost olive tone to it.

He was the kid who’d played pool with the Trucker last time he was here. The one the alpha had set his sights one, before the little punk had been saved by a group of rentboy friends who’d carried him off to drink elsewhere.

Well, well, well. Seems like luck only goes so far. As the Trucker ambled up to the kid, he idly wondered where his little pack of pansy friends were. Looked like they’d be too late to save him tonight…

The kid recognized the Trucker as well; his face lit up. “Hey, dude,” he called out, “I was hopin’ I’d see you again!”

The kid was telling the truth. He’d been entranced by the Trucker’s rugged and utterly unfeigned masculinity the moment he’d laid eyes on the alpha in the poolroom a couple of weeks ago. But Jimmy and Don had come up, and they’d scored some ice, and that had meant more at the moment.

That was then and this was now. And now he was broke and needed a john bad, one with a lot of money. Not that he wouldn’t let this stud fuck him for free if he could, but money was the primary focus.

“Hey,” the Trucker drawled, casually leaning back against the wall. “You, uh—available?”

The kid grinned. Now that he was closer, the Trucker could see that the boywhore was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt under the hoodie. That wasn’t all he could see; a line of thick dark fur was peeking above the collar of the t-shirt—the little fuck must be as hairy as he was, the Trucker realized; maybe more. It certainly didn’t show on his smooth young face.

“Yeah, I’m free,” the boy replied with a cocky grin, “But I ain’t exactly free, if ya get my drift.”

The Trucker got it, all right.

“How much for the whole night?” he asked.

The kid scrunched up his face in pretended thought, unconsciously giving himself a boyish, elfin expression by biting his bottom lip. “Five hundred,” he said, well aware it was too much but willing to take a shot and bargain if he had to.

The Trucker bit his bottom lip as well—to stop an overwhelming impulse to bray laughter in the faggot’s face. Five hundred for a night with this reamed-out fuckmeat?

“Five? No,” the Trucker said firmly but seriously, pretending to think himself. “How about three?”

The Trucker watched the whore’s eyes almost literally light up with dollar signs.

“I—uh, yeah, ok—” the rentboy faltered, stunned at his good luck. He’d have settled for fifty. “C’mon an’ follow me, I gotta place, a room. We can get busy an’ ain’t no one gonna disturb us…”

“Sure,” the Trucker said laconically, “Lead the way, boy.”

“Name’s Kristos,” the kid replied and this time the Trucker wasn’t able to contain his snort of amusement. The boy took it in stride; he wasn’t gonna let anything distract him from the possibility of earning three hundred bucks just for letting the hottest dude he’d ever seen fuck him.

“Naw, man, seriously,” Kristos said. “I’m half Greek. My mama is second-generation Greek. She insisted; it’s her the name of her favorite uncle.”

The Trucker’s ears picked up at the mention of the fuckmeat’s mother. “How old are ya, boy?” he asked casually.

“Twenty-one,” Kristos promptly lied; his birthday was still over two weeks away. But he was used to lying about his age; he’d been doing it ever since he ran away from home and started whoring himself out four years ago.

“Uh-huh,” the Trucker replied absently. He was sure the punk was lying, but it didn’t matter. However old the kid was, he wasn’t gonna get any older. “So where’s this room ya got?”

“This way,” Kristos said, heading towards the street and turning left. The steady beat of his boots on the pavement assured the kid that the Trucker was following him, but at some little distance behind. Dude was being cautious, he reflected—nothing wrong with that. Probably had a wife somewhere and was just out on the prowl for boys on the DL.

A right and another left brought them onto a pitted, run-down little street that ran parallel to the highway frontage road, one block behind it. The Trucker realized they were going to one of the sleazy little motels that lined this section of the highway. Infested with whores and drugs, City Hall was still determining how to deal with this two-block section that was considered a blight on the town. In the meantime, business flourished.

Kristos, already on the other side of the street, crossed the rear parking lot of a sordid little place called the Lady Luck Motel. The Trucker lounged behind, not wanting to be seen entering the same room as the fuckmeat. Ambling around a corner, he saw the boy disappear into an open door—room 27. With a grin, he noticed that the door had been left open a crack. After a quick glance around confirmed no one was watching, the huge, hardbodied killer slipped silently into the room. He closed and locked the door behind him, slipping the chain on as well.

The room itself was as cheap and sleazy as it had promised to be. A remodel sometime in the sixties had left the wall swathed in cheap faux-wood paneling, now loose and splintered and almost visibly oozing formaldehyde vapor. The furniture dated from a later era, probably the eighties—light wood veneer with brass accents and large panels painted dark green. The furniture was a decrepit as the paneling, pocked with cigarette—and undoubtedly crack pipe and meth pipe—burns and large white rings where drinks had stood.

There was a queen-size bed against the far wall, stripped down to the fitted sheet; the bedding piled on the floor next to the left side of the bed. On the left wall was a desk/dresser combo unit with a no-name brand flat TV standing on it; beyond it was the door to the bathroom. To the right of the door was a small round table with two chairs, not really big enough to serve as a dining table for two people. The whole place reeked of old musty smoke, detergent whose lemon additive didn’t completely mask the astringent scent of the powerful cleaning chemicals—and the unmistakable musk of mansex.

Kristos had already pulled off his hoodie and his t-shirt, revealing a slim, firm torso darkened with fur. His body hair was everywhere, on his chest, down his belly, even marching down his upper arms. It was long and dark and silky, much like the long jetty ringlets on his head.

The Trucker slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing over a chair as he watched the rentboy. The kid sat on the bed and kicked off his Air Jordans before standing back up. Smiling contemptuously, the older man peeled his Nike compression t-shirt off. The youth grinned eagerly as the alpha’s broad, hairy chest was exposed, the massive rise of his pecs emphasized by the gleaming dogtags nestled in the dark, fur-lined depression between.

“C’mon, man,” Kristos said, “Pull it out; lemme see what ya got.”

“You first,” the Trucker demanded.

The Greek boy’s eyes narrowed slightly; he made it a rule to make sure he was got at least some cash down before getting completely nude—but fuck, this dude was hot, and he wanted to see what kinda tackle the guy had swingin’ between his legs. He wriggled out of the tight black jeans; naturally, he’d gone commando for easy access.

Kristos’s legs were a hairy as the rest of him, long dark fur on his thighs and calves and a positive bush of black pubic curls. Luckily, his already-erect dick was six and half inches, easily visible despite the mass of fur from which it sprouted. His balls, on the other hand, were hard to discern; the punk was so aroused his scrotum was already starting to pucker. He wanted the Trucker bad—and it was obvious.

The hard-bodied alpha returned the kid’s cocky grin and unzipped his fly. Extracting his enormous manhood hand-over-hand from the depths of his groin took a moment; for each inch of manmeat that appeared, Kristos’s breathing became swifter and more intense. Goddam, he thought, lookit the size of that thing…

He wondered if he could really take it. If not, he’d have to give the guy his money back. Speaking of which—

“Ok, I’m gonna need to get some money before we go any farther,” the hairy youth said evenly.

“Uh-uh,” the Trucker replied, “You don’t get paid until I’m done.”

“That ain’t the way I work, man,” Kristos responded. “Don’t have to pay the whole thing—call it a deposit.” He looked the Trucker in the eye; he’d be willing to cut an alpha stud like this a discount afterwards if the fuck was a good as it looked like it’d be—but there was no way he’d be doing anything for free. It didn’t matter how hot the dude was; it was against what he called his principles. But he knew the vibes of a deadbeat by now and this guy wasn’t giving them off. He wasn’t quite sure what kinda vibes he was picking up on, but they definitely weren’t those of a broke-ass scumbag…

If Kristos had been more in tune with the vibes the Trucker was giving off, he’d have pissed himself. As it was, he got no warning at all.

The power contained in the Trucker’s massive right bicep was unleashed in a sudden, explosive blow like a bolt of lightning; the impact of his bunched-up fist in the kid’s face was just as swift and unexpected. Kristos experienced a powerful blast of pain and fell to the bed; three more blows in rapid, relentless procession smashed against his face, breaking his cheekbone and knocking out two teeth before the boywhore even realized he’d been punched.

Stunned, the boywhore coughed up two upper left molars, tasting blood in his mouth. His face was throbbing and swelling; he could feel the puffiness when he spoke.

“W-what the fuck…” he moaned softly, the effort of moving his lips and tongue almost being too much for him. But the words were meaningless anyway; he knew what the fuck. What the fuck was that this motherfucker had decked him.

Kristos had been robbed before; during his years as a teen street whore, he’d been beaten several times and raped more than once. He was pissed at himself for not recognizing a psycho sooner. But he was also pissed at the Trucker. He wasn’t gonna deal with this shit again; this time, he’d fight back.

With the honed instincts of an experienced killer, the hulking alpha had known that an attack would follow the outburst. Seeing the muscles in the boy’s legs coil, he pivoted back, planting his right harness boot firmly on the floor behind him, ready to take his weight. When the kid sprang, the Trucker was in perfect position to grab him by the nape of his neck and, whirling on the foot he’d planted behind him, propel the punk headfirst into the dresser/desk unit.

Kristos barely had time to realize something had gone wrong before his lights were put out.

If fate had been kind to the rentboy, he’d never have woken up again. As it was, he wasn’t out for very long. When he woke—his consciousness creeping back slowly and painfully—he was crumpled on the thin, threadbare carpet. Directly in his line of sight were a pair of black leather boots. Helpless, his eyes focused on the thick straps and metal rings on the boots; it seemed to be an instinctive maneuver to draw his attention away from the horrible pain in his head—to say nothing of the fear.

From above the boots, the came a voice, a deep, rugged growl. “You stupid fuckin’ pansy,” the Trucker sneered. “Didja really think you had a chance against a real man, faggot? Huh?”

The muscle-bound alpha, his upper lip curled with contempt, kicked Kristos, hard. There was a loud snap, making the boy cry out in pain and clutch as his broken rib.

“I was just gonna snuff ya tonight,” the killer said reflectively, “Just fuck ya and put ya down nice and easy. But you fucked it all up, son. You pissed me off. Now, you gotta die hard. Now, it’s gotta hurt.”

As the dark-haired boywhore turned his tear-streaked eyes up to his tormenter, the Trucker crouched down to give Kristos a better look. Despite the agony, despite the sheer terror, the furry young slut felt his cock stiffen as he looked into the ice-blue eyes of the handsome, hyper-masculine stud.

The Trucker saw it too. Instantly, his face was filled with a terrifying mix of rage and lust. He spit into Kristos’s face. “You disgustin’ sack of homo shit, you like this, yeah? The idea of me takin’ you out gets ya off? You like gettin’ hurt? Fuck yeah, cunt, why didn’t ya just say so? I’ll fuck you up so bad yer own mamma won’t recognize you. I’ll fuckin’ squeeze the cum outta yer dyin’ boymeat, asswipe. Goddam, I’ll hurt you so fuckin’ bad you’ll scream for joy!”

The muscle-bound psycho reached down and grabbed Kristos by the throat, then hoisted him into the air, instantly and effortlessly, as if the kid was no more substantial than a pillow. The rentboy choked and slobbered. His eyes rolled back in his swollen, purple face; his nose had been broken on impact with the dresser, streaking his face with trickles of blood.

Pivoting abruptly, the Trucker slammed the punk whore violently up against the outside door. Still clutching the kid single-handedly by the throat, the hardbodied killer leaned in, his face—both erotically hot and emotionally cold—filling Kristos’s field of vision. “It’s yer lucky day, ya fuckin’ painpig,” he hissed sneeringly.

The choking, semi-conscious youth caught at the word ‘lucky’; he’d certainly felt lucky when he’d brought this muscular stud back to fuck him…

…but now he couldn’t breathe. Holy fuck, it was horrible; his head was swelling, his face was swelling and the trauma he’d already suffered to those areas was intensifying his pain to excruciating levels. In an almost mindless surge of panic, Kristos began beating his fists against the Trucker’s huge pecs. His effort had virtually no effect besides hurting his hands; it was like beating a stone wall. Even the sound was muffled by the thick layer of wiry fur covering the older man’s chest.

As dark explosions burst before the kid’s eyes, his hands faltered and fell away. He was reduced to scratching at the door behind him, his clawing fingers seeking out the doorknob—mindlessly; he had no plan of action. As he gagged and drooled, his legs began jerking, his heels drumming loudly against the hollow-core door. It was a little too loud; it may have saved—or at least lengthened—Kristos’s life.

The Trucker spit in his face again before pulling him away from the door and tossing him limply onto the bed.

Gasping for air, unable to breathe through his blood-clogged nose, Kristos rolled onto his back. He moved slowly; the slightest effort to turn his body shoved the broken ends of his rib together. The internal grinding sensation was so painful, it literally took his breath away again.

By the time he got onto his back, the Trucker had crossed the room and was standing next to the bed, looming over him. The alpha’s gigantic erect cock jutted out in front, the thick purple head oozing hot drops of precum onto the slut’s flat, furry belly. Kristos’s eyes lifted above the Trucker’s intimidating shaft, past his ripped abs and up to his massive pecs with large dark nipples standing out above the dark wiry chest hair. The dogtags no longer caught the light, but an occasional glint marked their position, dangling in the middle of the stud’s muscled chest.

And above that, the face. The cold, masculine face in which Kristos could see his own death. The whoreboy quickly looked away, refusing to acknowledge what he had seen there.

Kristos couldn’t ignore it any longer. He burst into open sobs, desperately trying to understand how a simple trick with a hot stud could have gone so nightmarishly wrong.

As if he could read the kid’s mind—and he damn near could; none of the meat he offed seemed to have the intelligence to come up with an original thought—the Trucker jeered at the battered and terrified youth. “You deserve this, ya fuckin’ cunt. Ya know that, dontcha? You know it and want it; yer faggot dick don’t lie. This is what you been looking for for years. You wanted a real man to come along and finally give yer worthless fairy ass some meaning by usin’ you as his personal cumdump and then wipin’ you off the planet like a stain. Lay back and enjoy it, bitch, I’m gonna use you up till yer dead, then leave your rottin’ corpse for the maid to throw out like a cumrag. Think the police are gonna care if I snuff a worthless faggot like you? Fuck, they’d probably give me a medal; they hate cumsuckin’ homos like you.”

In spite of himself, as the cruel verbal abuse washed over him, Kristos could feel his own cock get harder and harder, until it ached horribly. He was almost numb with fear and his sense of bewildered terror was somehow amplified when he felt searing drops of precum land in his groin that didn’t come from the Trucker. The fact that he was aroused while at the mercy of a murderous psycho only emphasized the nightmarish and surreal situation.

Slowly, Kristos tried to turn away, doing his best to ignore the stabbing pain in his abdomen as the jagged edge of a broken rib tore at the fragile, gossamer-thin tissue of his lung. Smirking, the Trucker reached over and grabbed the cunt’s thighs, rolling Kristos back onto his back and forcing his legs apart.

The kid emitted a pathetic bleat of pain as the alpha positioned himself between the boy’s firm, furry legs. Kristos was too distracted to notice how the older man was lining up his enormous cock with the kid’s fuckhole—the rib had punctured his lung, and the boy was having trouble breathing.

He had no trouble letting out a loud screech of agony as the Trucker abruptly penetrated him, the alpha’s huge shaft of throbbing manmeat plunging full-length into the kid’s tender, unprepared guts. The massive swollen head, lubed by nothing but its own precum, tore viciously at Kristos’s velvety rectal lining and ground relentlessly over the punk’s prostate. The boy could feel his own rod swelling and pulsing uncontrollably, even as he wailed in pain.

“Shaddup, motherfucker,” the Trucker growled and popped him in the face again—a single blow, the muscle-bound top’s bicep pumping with the force of a mule kick. Kristos took it full in the jaw, which was hit hard enough to be dislocated.

“Yeah, that’s more like it,” the cruel alpha said, roughly sliding his dick in and out of Kristos’s innards as the kid lay back on the bed, trembling and mewling softly. The boy was literally overwhelmed by the violence and trauma he’d suffered; he sobbed quietly, every motion of his mouth causing terrible pain to shoot through his jaw.

“Take my cock, faggot,” the Trucker murmured, looking down at the youth’s slim body, the olive skin covered by a mass of black fur, matted with sweat. The Trucker was sweating himself; the room was charged with the acrid scent of adrenaline, the musky smell of mansweat, the heady pheromones being pumped out by two males bodies entwined in violent contact. With every thrust of the older man’s dick, their bodies slapped together, rubbing over each other. It was hot as fuck.

It wasn’t enough. The Trucker needed more and he decided it was time to go for it.

“You just ain’t doin’ it for me, cunt. What a sorry-ass homo—can’t even milk a load outta me. Guess I’m gonna hafta do it manually, huh? You gonna make me jack off? Okay, asswipe, I’m gonna use you to jack off.”

Propping Kristos’s ankles on his shoulders, the Trucker leaned forward, pinning the youth in a fetal position with his dick up the kid’s ass. Wrapping his huge powerful hands around the boy’s throat, he grinned down at his helpless prey, his face lit with lunatic glee. “Are ya ready, fucker? Wanna die? No? Yer cock sez ya do, asswipe. Yer cock is tellin’ me that yer just another worthless faggot that gets off by gettin’ offed. I’ve wasted dozens of you little cocksuckers and you’re all just the same—squeeze ya a little bit and ya blow yer death load all over the place. At least you’ll kick and jerk nice and hard as I choke ya to death. You ain’t got no idea how good it feels when a fuckwad like you dies on my cock.”

Kristos didn’t understand the words, but he understood when the massive hand around his throat tightened as cruelly and relentlessly as a bear trap. The complete inability to breathe forced the boywhore to surface from a dark pit of mental and physical shock into a sharply-edged nightmare. Instantly, his hands went to the Trucker’s wrists—clawing, prying, any desperate move he could think of to break the older man’s grip, or at least lessen it.

It was utterly futile; nothing he could do, exerting all his remaining strength, so much as budged the alpha’s hands by a fraction of an inch. They merely squeezed tighter.

The horrible crushing pain in his throat was slowly starting to seem like less of a concern, though, compared to pressure inside his skull. There was a feeling of swelling, both in his skin and on the inside—in his brain. It throbbed swiftly, the pressure hammering at the interior of his cranium…

…but even that pain was fading before the conviction that something horrific was being done to his guts. As dark spots burst in his field of vision, Kristos had the sensation that the huge, cue-ball-sized head of the Trucker’s massive cock was ripping and tearing at his rectum, tearing away his intestines, disemboweling him internally. He’d never had a dick that big inside him; the Trucker had literally split him open on the first thrust. Now, as his nervous system was starting to short out from oxygen deprivation, the torn nerve endings in his ravaged colon became hyperactive, as did those in his crushed, battered prostate.

Kristos was becoming hypersensitive; every jolt to his nervous system was amplified dozens of times in his dying brain.

The Trucker sneered and spit into the punk’s dark, swelling face. “Die, ya fuckin’ asswipe. C’mon, motherfucker, let go and jack me off. Only way it’s gonna stop hurtin’ is if you give up and die, faggot; the longer you fight against it, the more yer gonna suffer.”

Kristos’s hand drummed on the Trucker’s broad, muscled chest with no other result than to make the dogtags jump around. The kid’s face, already purple and swollen with bruises, was now unrecognizable. His tongue, black and obscene, protruded from blue, bloated lips over which a stream of bloody foam dribbled. The drool leaked down the boy’s cheeks and over his chin. The dark, liquid eyes were bulging horrifically, the whites red with hemorrhages.

The slut’s struggles became more spasmodic; the Trucker had reached his arms around the kid’s legs to keep them in place on his shoulders, now he had to tighten his arms as they jerked randomly and violently. It was obvious that Kristos had only seconds more to live.

“Lights out, faggot,” the sadistic alpha grunted and clenched his hands as hard as he could.

It felt—and sounded—like he was crushing Styrofoam as he squeezed Kristos’s esophagus into a bloody pulp. The same slight resistance before giving way, the same loud crackling sound…

For Kristos, it felt like what it was—death. His brain was nearly dead already in any case; there was just enough left of the homo slut to feel the terrible pain of his crushed windpipe…and then another pain took over. The young boywhore died in searing, screaming agony as he shot his death load. He’d never imagined that an orgasm could be that intense—or hurt so bad.

As his lithe, furry body clenched the Tucker in its death agony, the violent rhythmic convulsion milking the alpha’s cock perfectly, the older man felt a hot splash on his chest. Glancing down, the dying punk’s dick rose up and shot a solid stream of jizz directly into the Trucker’s face, some of it splashing into his left eye.

“Goddammit!” he yelled in rage. Instantly grabbing the boy’s chin in one hand and the back of his head in the other, the Trucker twisted Kristos’s skull in a full one-eighty, the vertebrae snapping like popcorn.

With one last sudden convulsion, the dead boy’s asshole sucked on the Trucker’s cock, triggering a huge explosion of manseed. “Fuck! Goddam! Fuck!” the alpha yelled, his muscular body bucking and thrusting, hunched over the trembling corpse of the smaller kid as the top hosed its guts with semen.

The Trucker didn’t know how many times he’d unloaded inside the dead kid when it was all over. He spent a few moments catching his breath, lying on top of the corpse, warm, furry cum-covered belly to quivering furry cum-covered belly.

After a couple of minutes, he withdrew his enormous shaft from the rentboy’s ass. As soon as his harness boots hit the floor, he walked to the bathroom. Soaking a towel in the sink, he proceeded to wipe the slut’s spunk off his chest and to clean his own dick before stuffing it back into his jeans.

Walking back into the room, he looped his compression t-shirt through his belt; he didn’t want to put it on while his torso was still wet. Picking up his jacket, he turned and admired the corpse displayed on the stripped-down bed. The lean, lithe body was still shuddering, the large pools of semen that had puddled on the chest were just starting to coagulate and mat the dark body hair.

Slipping on the leather jacket, leaving it open open just enough for his large dark nipples to stiffen in the chilly air, the Trucker unlocked the door and slipped out. After a quick glance around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, the alpha moved quickly. At first he was quiet, but after a block, he broke out whistling, a broad grin covering his face as he headed for his rig. Running into that little motherfucker again—he’d been really lucky.

“Aw, Jesus, not another one,” Ayers whined.

Donato eyed him curiously. “What’s yer problem? Not like ya gotta do anything more than a little paperwork. No one’s gonna give a shit if we blow this one off.”

“I know,” Ayers replied, “But I’m just sick of havin’ to see this crap. I mean, lookit this one. Sweet Jesus in a chicken basket, his head’s backwards.”

“Yeah? So? Some dude really hates fags. I know the feelin’.”

“And lookit this—there are fingernail marks on the door. Poor kid musta seen what was comin’ and tried to get away. Musta been horrible.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ayers? You suddenly feel like cryin’ cause some worthless fuckin’ homo got wasted?”

“Little fag cunt probably deserved it,” the younger cop said callously. “C’mon, let’s get this finished up. I’m hungry. You want ribs? The waitress over at the barbecue place was makin’ eyes at me the other day. Let’s go and see if she’s on shift.”

It was about eight-thirty on a warm summer evening when Adam pulled into the parking lot on the west side of the SoHoLo Hotel. Getting out of his car, he could a bank of clouds still illuminated from underneath by the setting sun. They were lit in a garish blood-red.

Adam took it as a good sign. For a moment, his handsome face flashed an evil, shark-like grin before it lapsed back into its normal innocent expression. He reached into the car and grabbed a gym bag before heading towards the hotel lobby.

He’d enjoyed himself so much the last time he was here, he’d left the place a five-star rating on Yelp, hoping to offset some of the negative publicity that swirled around the hotel once the violated corpse of his kill had been found. Now he was back and on the hunt again.

This time, he didn’t want to wait around in the lobby. He’d checked out the amenities online from the well-equipped exercise room and the full-service laundry in the basement to the luxury spa and executive suites on the tenth floor. He’d decided to start in the bar. If that didn’t work out, he’d hit up the gym and the pool, in that order. Maybe the top-floor sauna after that.

Surely, the copper-haired stud thought, he’d find some dude to play with. At any rate, he’d brought a change of clothes along, just in case he struck out in the bar and needed to get more…physical. Otherwise, he was dressed casually in a dark green button-down shirt and a pair of tight jeans, faded to pale blue. On his feet were the gray Nike Flight Falcons that he’d used on his last kill here at the hotel.

Holding his gym bag casually, Adam crossed the large lobby area, circling around the open work space in the center. A few of the carrel-like spaces were occupied, but no one caught Adam’s eye. He headed for the darkened passage that led to the bar and the elevator lobby.

The hip, modern décor with flames and falling water, did nothing to illuminate the murky entrance to the bar, but the raucous babble of voices and music were sufficient indication of its location. Just outside the door was a sign with plastic letters spelling out “Morrison bachelorette party.”

Sighing, Adam poked his head into the bar. On the far left was a small impromptu stage where three drunk women were wailing off-key at a karaoke machine. The handsome sex killer shook his head in disgust and withdrew. He’d pinned his hopes on finding fresh meat in the bar; now he’d have to fall back to plan B and see if there was anyone in the hotel’s well-equipped exercise room.

The elevator lobby was just behind him; within two minutes, he was outside the glass door leading to the hotel’s gym. Peering in, he saw a middle-aged woman, lean and stringy in a t-shirt and yoga pants, riding a stationary bike. He dismissed her immediately, focusing his attention on the other occupant of the room.

The young man—he was no older than his early twenties—was over by the free weights, working his biceps with a set of dumbbells. He was wearing nothing but a pair of gray Under Armor shorts, leaving his broad, well-built chest, streaked with sweat, to glisten under the overhead fluorescents. His short hair was also darkened and spiked by sweat, but the stubble on his cheeks and his strong jaw showed its true chestnut color. Below the shorts, muscled legs descended to a pair of white and gray Nike Zooms. Presumably the dude was wearing ped socks; Adam couldn’t see from his position.

The woman on the bike finished her workout and walked towards one of a pair of cubicles to the left side of the exercise room; they were changing rooms—not that the broad bothered to change anything but her shoes. She emerged quickly and, opening the door, headed towards the elevators.

Adam took his chance, stepping forward and catching the door before it closed—and then he was in. He headed directly for the changing room and swiftly got into his workout gear.

The t-shirt that clung tightly to his massive pecs was a bright, eye-catching yellow. There was a tear at the collar, deep enough to reveal his furry chest and the lack of sleeves emphasized his thick biceps and hairy forearms. His powerful legs were bracketed between the Flight Falcon kicks and a pair of black Adidas shorts. The outfit was designed to draw attention to his strong, hard body.

It did the trick. From the moment he stepped back into the gym area, the other dude focused on him with laser intensity. Deep hazel eyes ringed with long lashes roamed over Adam’s hot, hard body. There was a visible tenting action in the kid’s shorts as he approached, holding out his hand, a big grin on his face.

Clint perked up. “Me too! Here for the horse show tomorrow—you know, down in the arena?”

Adam shook his head; he was honestly unaware of what was happening in the arena downtown over the weekend.

Clint gave a sheepish grin. “Yeah, well, it ain’t a big deal. I’m assistant to Clyde Sanger—you prob’ly ain’t heard’a him; he’s a horse trainer. He got himself a nice room downtown, but said there weren’t no more vacancies, so he put me up here. Anyway, reason I’m yammerin’ my mouth off—I didn’t get the chance to work the horses—Clyde did it himself tonight—and if I don’t get a good workout in before bed, I can’t sleep. I was hopin’ you’d spot for me.”

Adam nodded sympathetically. “Sure, bro, I’ll spot ya,” he said.

“Cool, man!” Clint smiled enthusiastically and, heading to the bench, lay on it. He’d already fastened a pair of forty-five pound weights on each side of the bar. “I like to start by pressin’ one-eighty,” he confided. “No way I coulda asked that lady in here earlier to spot me; weight woulda killed the broad.”

“I gotcha,” Adam said, flexing his arm so the thick vein running down each bicep popped out. Clint stared up at him, lust glittering in his eyes, before laying back, gripping the bar and lifting almost two hundred pounds.

Clint strained under the weight. His handsome, scruffy face flushed red and pulled back into a rictus of Herculean effort. His bare pecs, glistening with sweat, bulged massively as he struggled; his Nikes were pressed firmly against the floor to give him leverage.

Slowly, he extended his arms out to full length, then brought the barbell back down to its rest. Adam walked to the head of the bench and stood there while the buff boy pressed seven more reps. By the eighth, Adam had seen enough to get hard himself.

This was prime meat. Time to get the show on the road. He stepped forward as Clint lifted the bar again. The kid glanced up—and found he could look right up Adam’s Adidas shorts.

Adam, of course, was commando. Clint had a perfect view of the stud’s huge, hairy balls and, above them, his massive, vein-wrapped member looking less like a tent pole in his shorts and more like a baseball bat under a napkin.

This wasn’t Clint’s first time at the rodeo, so to speak. He was twenty-two and had been working for Clyde since he was sixteen. He’d started accompanying his employer when he was seventeen—and had managed to sneak out of the hotel and get himself fucked on that first trip. He’d been on more than two dozen trips since then, and had only struck out twice. He was no virgin.

But he’d never seen a cock this big. Fuck, it was huge, and he wanted it so bad. He gasped aloud—and in his distraction he let the barbell slip. For a brief moment, it hung in the balance, then it tipped to the side and Clint found that he was unable to stop it.

Adam saw the barbell moving sideways. “Here, dude, I got it,” he said, leaning forward and grabbing the bar with both hands. He then impressed the hell outta Clint by easily lifting a hundred and eighty pounds, setting the bar back in its rests. When he straightened up, he wasn’t even breathing hard.

“D-damn, man,” Clint stuttered, disconcerted both by Adam’s tool and his strength. “Shit, buddy, you’re powerful as fuck.” And with an unmistakably direct look at Adam’s crotch, he continued, almost shyly. “And speakin’ of a powerful fuck, I, uh, I gotta room by myself up on the eighth floor…”

Adam grinned, a predatory gleam in his eye. “Well, hell, bro, what we waitin’ for?” He stepped to the far side of the exercise room and retrieved his gym bag as Clint gathered up his own gear. The deviant sex killer followed his victim out to the elevator, watching the kid’s frim ass flex in his Under Armor shorts. Hell yeah, he wanted to stick his dick into that meat—the thought was getting him even harder.

So was the thought of making the little fucker into meat in the first place.

Clint hadn’t bothered to put his shirt back on; his well-developed chest glistened with sweat in the dim elevator lighting. His dark eyes were glued to Adam’s crotch. As he stared he rubbed the massive bulge in his own shorts almost absentmindedly. Adam smirked, looking at his prey. The kid was strong and tough, only about three inches shorter than Adam, and nearly as well built.

Adam was gonna have to plan this carefully; the punk would probably put up a fight. As an experienced killer, he knew he could take the boy down—but he didn’t want to get injured doing it. This was going to take either a little finesse or a lot of brute force.

The car slid to a stop on the eighth floor; the ride had occurred in silence, but Clint spoke as soon as they stepped out. “It’s down here, on the right. Just a little ways,” he said reassuringly, as if he was afraid Adam would change his mind.

Adam had no intention of changing his mind. As he tagged along behind the buff boy, he could feel sexual desire flowing though himself like an electrical charge. Such prime fuckin’ meat; it was gonna be so hot fucking that sexy corpse…

Caught up in his thoughts of murderous lust, Adam almost walked into Clint when the latter stopped and opened the door to his room. He followed the punk into the room and glanced around.

The room wasn’t quite as swanky as the last one he’d been in; it was smaller and the view wasn’t as good—the window was large, but it looked out over a side street at the solid glass wall of an office building—but it still had a certain hip sparseness to it. Like the other room, a floor-to-ceiling divider wall separated the bedroom form the bathroom with the bed facing the window, its head against the divider. On the far side of the room was corner unit that combined desk, TV stand and minibar; there was a small dresser on the near side.

Clint flicked on the lights. There were three; one on a nightstand next to the bed, one on the dresser and one on the desk. Together, they cast a warm yellow glow into the dark room. Once the lights were on, the hot young faggot didn’t waste any time; tossing his shirt aside on the floor, he kicked off his Nikes and shimmied out of his shorts.

Of course he was freeballing underneath. His thick cock sprang out the moment his shorts were lowered, slapping up against his flat ripped abs. It was over six inches long and about an inch and a half thick, not including the pulsing veins wrapped around it. It rose in a graceful curve from a mass of bushy brown curls that filled his crotch.

Wordlessly, the buff young slut approached the bed and began stripping it, first peeling back the thick, soft sand-colored comforter, then the crisp white high-thread-count cotton sheets. As he worked, Clint put his hard body on display, his thick muscles flexing as he bent down or reached across the mattress. In the space of a few seconds, a large, luxuriously-appointed bed had been pared down to bare platform for fucking, with only a single fitted sheet left.

When he was done, he turned back to Adam, silent, almost nervous, nude except for a pair of black ped socks.

Adam smiled—it was more like a sneer. “Get on the bed, boy,” he commanded as he pulled off his sleeveless yellow t-shirt. He approached the bed, still in his shorts and hightops. As he loomed over the young man, he could see the boy’s eyes fixed on his chest, the pupils moving as they traced the contours of his furry, hubcap-like pecs.

“I wanna see your dick…” Clint said breathlessly, almost in a moan. His shaft pulsated powerfully twice, then there was a glitter in the piss slit of his engorged head as his precum started to flow.

Adam turned abruptly and walked to the window without saying a word. Standing with his back to the bed, he slowly slipped the Adidas shorts down his legs, stepping out of them without removing his Nikes. He, like the kid, was commando underneath; as he bent down to retrieve the shorts, Clint got a perfect view of the older stud’s firm, perfect asscheeks flexing with the movement.

When Adam turned around, Clint gasped aloud. He’d had a glimpse of Adam’s dick while the dude was spotting him, but that had been partially obscured and at an awkward angle. Now he could see the enormous club-shaped shaft of engorged, pulsating flesh clearly.

He wanted that cock. He’d never wanted dick so badly in his life.

Even from the window, Adam could see lust glinting in the boy’s eyes. The fag was hooked; all he needed to do was reel him in. He approached the bed, slowly and deliberately—almost ominously.

Clint sighed in sexual contentment as the (slightly) older man climbed onto the bed—and onto him, sitting on his torso and straddling him. The young fag could feel the buff stud’s firm asscheeks planted on his belly as Adam’s huge tool jutted over his chest, dripping hot pearls of transparent precum onto Clint’s hard, glistening pecs.

“Fuck yeah, man,” he moaned, arching backwards and thrusting his pelvis up, his own cock slapping against the small of Adam’s back, “Fuck me, dude, stick it in me…”

Adam looked down in disgust at the muscular homo writhing in sexual pleasure beneath him. He wanted nothing to do with the pathetic, mewling degenerate shuddering between his legs; he was just looking for a hot sexy corpse into which he could sink his aching shaft and find release.

That meant he had to put a little effort in—luckily, it was work he enjoyed. Plus, it’d make up for the workout he’d cut short.

And, of course, tough meat like this always benefitted from tenderizing.

Clint opened his large, dark eyes, placing his hands on Adam’s thick, powerful thighs as he gazed worshipfully up into the perverted killer’s face. “Damn, bro, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he muttered, fondling the alpha’s tree-trunk-like legs that were wrapped around his waist. “I gotta tell ya, dude, I work hard and I play hard. After a long day workin’ out the horses, I like to get rid’ myself, but I ain’t never seen no hossdick like yers.”

The youth ran his eyes lasciviously up the top’s well-defined torso, then let his hands follow suit. They slid up Adam’s smooth, sweat-slicked flanks to lodge in the stud’s chest hair. Clint sighed with erotic pleasure as he curled his fingers in the dark, wiry fur spread across Adam’s broad, muscled chest.

Clint was too engrossed in sexual desire to pick up on Adam’s silence or to notice the expression of lust-laced rage on the stronger man’s face. The boy was focused completely on the muscled form that straddled him, pinning him to the bed. Instinctively, irresistibly, he reached up and grabbed Adam’s enormous cock with both hands.

Adam leaned forward, placing one large powerful hand on the kid’s chest and resting his weight on it. Clint grunted as the air was pressed out of his lungs. Even though he was looking directly into Adam’s face, the horny young faggot still thought the gleam that lit the copper-haired top’s eyes was lust; he was incapable of recognizing the glitter of gleeful cruelty that was radiating from the alpha.

“You want it slow, boy?” Adam whispered huskily. “I can make it slow. I can make it go so slow you’d beg me to end it if you could still speak.”

“Don’t worry,” Adam smirked, “I guarantee you won’t be in any pain tomorrow.”

Clint’s handsome young face broke into a broad smile, despite the intense pressure on his chest. “Goddam, man,” he moaned, “That hog’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad but I’m gonna cum before it’s all the way up my ass…”

“You’ll dump your load before that, cocksucker,” Adam responded.

Once again, Clint failed to notice the coldness in the stronger man’s voice. “Oh no,” he chirped as well as his compressed torso would allow, “I usta shoot a wad at the slightest touch but nowadays I need to get fucked before I can cum. Nothin’ else does it any more, not even BJs.”

As he spoke, the hard-bodied punk ran both hands up the one arm Adam was using to pin him to the bed, feeling the knotted muscles slide under his palms. Once he reached the shoulder, he brought his hands back down, curling his fingers in the wiry, sweat-matted hair covering the alpha’s wide, powerful chest. Lost in physical admiration, he smiled happily up at the murderous stud.

Adam permitted himself a small, icy grin as he shifted his weight to his other hand—and moved it higher up Clint’s chest, making it more difficult for the kid to breath.

“Yeah?” he sneered, “Ya whored yerself out so much you gotta get yer fuckhole reamed so you can spunk? I got another way to get it outta ya, you worthless fag—I can just squeeze it outta ya.”

Even if Clint had missed the tone of Adam’s voice, this time there was no way to miss his words. The boy was young, well-built and extremely attractive; he had gotten many protestations of love—but no abuse. His eyes widened in confusion as Adam’s contempt caught his attention.

His eyes wide as dinner plates, the muscular slut stared up at the alpha, incomprehension writ large on his face. His brain simply refused to process the words. “Wh-” he stammered, “I—wha—I don’t under-understand—”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you’re dumber than a sack of hammers. Guess I gotta beat it into ya, asswipe.”

Adam reached out and snatched up the lamp on the nightstand. In spite of its weight—the base was a two-foot rectangle of polished stone and carved wood—he swing it around easily and cracked Clint across the skull with it, putting the kid’s lights out good and hard.

With the fuckmeat lying limply beneath him, Adam held the lamp in one hand and wrapped its power cord around his other hand. He pulled hard enough for the veins to pop out on his bulging biceps, but within seconds he’d pulled the cord free from both the base and the outlet simultaneously.

In the increased dimness of ambient light, he tossed the lamp to the floor, barely noticing the sound as the shade crumpled and the bulb shattered with a loud pop. His bulked-out hairy chest sweaty and heaving with exertion, Adam swiftly used the cord to bind Clint’s hands to the open metalwork of the bed’s headboard. As he jerked the cord tightly around the kid’s wrists, the latter moaned, an indication that he was starting to regain consciousness despite the vicious blow to the head that had left blood trickling from a nasty cut on his temple.

Pain, in fact, was the first thing Clint experienced on awakening, the unexpectedness of the blow adding shock to the sensation of physical damage. He could feel weight on his abdomen, but it took him a moment to clear the aching dimness out of his mind and remember the stud he’d picked up down in the exercise room. Dude had hit him—what the fuck? He tried to push the guy off him, only to find his hands above his head, so tightly bound that the circulation was cut off.

And that was when fear joined shock and pain. Clint’s eyes widened and his cock wilted.

“Wacha doon?” he slurred, still disoriented and lacking some fine motor control.

Adam waited for what he knew would follow. First, about fifteen seconds of quiet as the meat tried to digest the meaning of his words. Second would be a rigidity, a stiffening of the body in horror as full understand sank in.

Terror had enhanced his slight southern drawl. Adam’s first response was twitch in his dick, followed by a visible increase in the precum drooling from his purple tip. Clint could feel the hot liquid spattering his chest and moaned in fear.

“Cause I wanna,” Adam said coldly. “Cause it gets me off. Cause I ain’t no homo. I don’t fuck other dudes, you worthless cocksuckin’ pig; I fuck meat.”

Clint stared in confusion up at the alpha’s handsome, masculine face, now twisted bewilderingly into a mask of rage. He couldn’t understand why this was happening. He was just gonna have some innocent fun getting fucked in the ass by a strong, muscled stranger. How had he ended up bound and helpless under a sociopathic killer?

“No—fuck, please no…” he whispered in terror. They were the last words he ever spoke.

“I’m horny,” Adam growled. “I wanna cum. Time to take a dirt nap, motherfucker.” Leaning forward, he wrapped his huge, powerful hands around the kid’s throat and squeezed.

Clint was in instant agony; it felt like a bear trap had closed on his neck. He tried to scream but all that came out was a thick, wet gagging sound.

Adam glared down at the panicked, struggling youth. “Die, you stupid sack of shit,” he hissed, “My balls are so fulla cum they hurt. Choke and die, asswipe, so I can fill your useless boymeat with my spunk.”

The writhing, terrified punk knew he was dying. His young, innocent was swelling and turning red. He jerked his arms frantically, his well-developed delts and triceps quivering with the strain, slowly managing to unloosen the knot,even though he was unaware of it.

“Quit fightin’ it, faggot,” Adam snarled. “More ya fight, more I make it hurt. Ya got that, cunt? You’re dyin’—how long it takes and how bad it hurts is all up to you, bitch.”

Clint gagged and heaved, hearing the words but unable to control his strong young body. Adam, of course, knew that most of the kid’s movements were involuntary; he just wanted to watch the boy suffer as he tried to stop the physical reactions. “Dumbass cocksucker,” the cruel alpha sneered, “I toldja to stop strugglin’. Now I’m gonna hafta hurt ya. Hold on, fuckwad, this is gonna blow yer tiny faggot mind.”

Twisting his hands, Adam positioned them on Clint’s throat with his thumbs resting on the punk’s larynx—and then squeezed. Hard. Really fucking hard.

Clint’s eyes were already starting to protrude from lack of oxygen; there was nothing in his agonized, distorted face to indicate the new depths of pain he was plumbing as his voice box was slowly crushed. His legs, on the other hand, expressed his reaction eloquently; his thick, muscled thighs flexing as he kicked violently. As he flailed, the sock was pulled off his left foot, which was left bare, toes curling with exertion.

Viciously, Adam spat into Clint’s darkening face. “Ya feelin’ the burn yet, homo? Useless fag like you deserves to die in a fuckload of pain, right? So take what’s comin’ to ya, boy, die like a fuckin’ dog!”

His thumbs dug deeply into the bulge of cartilage in Clint’s throat. As it began to deform and give way under his brute strength, Adam’s cock began to pulse even faster, the veins wrapped round it becoming more engorged with lust and rage-fueled blood.

Clint’s dick had a different response. Adam felt a wet spurt against the small of his back, and a persistent warm trickle under his asscheeks. Clint had pissed himself in sheer terror as his throat was being crushed.

Suddenly, a faint crunch came from the kid’s windpipe; the larynx had collapsed and folded back into the esophagus. Between the pain and the horrific impact the sound of the physical damage made, Clint went momentarily insane.

Thrashing like a landed fish, Clint’s hands slipped free of the cord. The boy beat his hands vainly against Adam’s massive chest. He pressed his hands against the top’s arms and tried to pry them away from his neck. He pressed his feet—now both bare—against the bed and tried to lift himself up and shove the alpha off. Nothing worked. All he succeeded in doing was to burn through most of what little oxygen remained in his bloodstream.

Still Clint struggled, straight-arming death for as long as the strength in his young hard body held out. By now, most of his resistance was involuntary. His eyes bulged unseeingly from his tear-streaked, blackening face, his thick, protruding tongue was almost as purple as Adam’s dick. Foam bubbled out past his blue, swollen lips as his hands gradually slowed from panicked pounding to near-gentle caresses of his killer’s shoulders and arms.

And his cock was starting to swell, too. Even as Adam was violently strangling his prey, he could feel the spongy tip of the meat’s shaft pressing against the small of his back. The sensation of the kid’s stiffening cock touching him further enraged the psychotic stud.

Spitting into Clint’s black, unrecognizable face again. “Die, you fuckin’ pig!” he hissed. Underneath him, there was little left of Clint to understand; the buff gay boy started to shudder as large parts of his brain started to die. The pain in his throat, the pounding in his head and the horrible pressure in his chest were all starting to fade, along with his consciousness and his personality. A loud, buzzing darkness had started at the periphery and was now rapidly eating its way to the center of the fag’s universe, and the darkness was death. The punk’s heart began to fail, beating in an increasingly (and excruciatingly) erratic pattern…

…and there was a deep, vital ache in his scrotum, like he’d been kicked in the balls, except it ran the entire length of his unaccountably erect, swollen cock…

As his body progressed from violently flailing to slow, pre-death convulsions, Clint’s randomly-moving hands stroked his killer’s hard, sweaty body. One hand reached up and slid almost tenderly down Adam’s cheek while the other, clutching at the alpha’s chest, ended with its fingers curled tightly in the wiry fur.

“Fuck you, faggot,” Adam whispered and clenched his hands together as tightly as he could. The cracking, splintering sound of Clint’s esophagus collapsing into a mangled ball of cartilage rang out like a shot in the dimly-lit room.

The meat’s eyes rolled back in its head and the body began to convulse rhythmically, jerking and flopping between Adam’s powerful thighs as he straddled the dying punk. All of Clint’s short, spunk-filled existence contracted into a blast of searing agony that boiled up out of his balls and shot out great strands of pearly boyseed, jetting straight up and raining back down on both the killer and his victim.

Grimacing with rage and effort, Adam kept throttling the corpse, feeling the meat convulsing in its death throes under him. The punk’s load had splattered in his hair and down his back; some of it had even shot over his head and landed in the kid’s own face, where it pooled in his half-open eyes from which only the blood-streaked white peeked. More boyspunk had fallen on the homo’s cheeks, where it blended perfectly with the foamy drool still leaking of the meat’s face.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Adam muttered, “Nice piece a’ fuckmeat.” Releasing the corpse’s neck, he reached down. Looping his arms under the meat’s still-quivering legs, he brought them up, placing the ankles on his shoulders. The strong alpha inserted his tool into the dead kid’s fuckhole and shoved. Despite being flaccid in death, there still wasn’t enough elasticity in the sphincter to take the full girth of the top’s shaft. Adam felt the ass muscle tear as he mounted the corpse.

The meat was still shuddering in its death throes as Adam pumped his rod deep into its guts. Out of corner of his eye, he could catch a glimpse of its feet, resting on his shoulders. The toes were curling; it was a mindless reflex, of course, the random firing of nerves as the last few functional brain cells died, but they seemed to be perfectly timed to Adam’s thrusts.

It was almost like the fagmeat was still alive. Adam didn’t like that. Without missing a beat, he reached around and grabbed the corpse’s crushed throat, digging his fingers into the spinal ridge in the back while placing his thumbs under the corner of the jaw.

As he fucked the meat, he applied pressure to his thumbs.

The alpha’s hard, sweat-soaked body pumped the dead homo brutally. Adam could feel his balls drawing up, ready to fill the corpse with hot geysers of mansperm. His breathing became labored and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he tried to delay his orgasm—then he gave in.

“Fuckin’-A!” he shouted, tightening his hands involuntarily as his muscled form shuddered violently in physical release. There was a faint cracking sound, barely audible over Adam’s deep, orgasmic grunts and the corpse went rigid; for a brief moment, the slack dead intestinal muscles tightened around Adam’s throbbing, shooting tool before lapsing back into limp death, this time irretrievably. The buff killer had literally popped the meat’s skull off its spine when he shot his wad.

Sighing with sexual satisfaction, Adam held his position for a little longer, his still-oozing dick buried in the corpse. When he finally stopped shuddering in ecstasy, he pulled out and stood at the foot of the bed, his chest and sides heaving as his breathing gradually slowed back to a normal pace. Abruptly, he turned and headed for the bathroom. He needed a shower.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the bedroom, pulling on his jeans a slipping back into the green button-down. He didn’t put the Flight Falcons back on, though; he slipped the hightops into his gym back—along with the dead boy’s Under Armor shorts. They looked like they’d fit him. He laced the fuckmeat’s Nike Zooms onto his own feet before zipping up the back and heading towards the door.

Just before stepping out of the room, he turned for a final look back. The dead fag was splayed out on the bed, hands near the head with the fingers curled in final death agony. The body wasn’t twitching anymore; the neck snap had taken care of that. The abuse and violence inflicted on the sexy, unfortunate youth was as obvious as the fact that his corpse had been violated after death.

With a huge, self-satisfied grin, Adam left the room. He hung the “do not disturb” tag on the door on his way out, wondering how long it’d take for the punk’s boss to get pissed off enough to come looking for him. The meat would be nice and stiff by time it was found.

For Carlos, it started with a text from Nick: “be @ office in ½ hr—got a job”. In this context, Carlos knew exactly what “job” meant. And the fact that Nick wanted him at the office so quickly meant it had to be something good; at this hour of the day, traffic made that timetable impossible. Nick must be really excited.

Carlos was already casually dressed in tight but faded jeans, a navy-blue thermal shirt with long sleeves; it clung to the hard-bodied convict like it had been painted on. On his feet were a pair of boots—brown leather ropers, so worn, they slouched and were soft as leather. The outside temperature was in the lower 40’s—a chilly evening for Vegas. Carlos was used to colder weather; he didn’t bother to put a jacket on before he left the condo. On the other hand, he kept the top up and the heat on in the Mercedes.

The office that Nick referred to was literally that; he’d rented some space in an office/warehouse park in the southwest part of town off Blue Diamond Road. It consisted of a suite of two rooms, the inner devoted to the technical aspects of the production. Carlos rarely entered it; Nick kept it freezing for the sake of the server and expensive desktop units he used for editing and storage.

The outer room, however, was furnished for people to meet. A sofa and four chairs, all cheap but relatively comfortable, were spread out with a couple of strategically-placed chairs. In one corner was a desk with a monitor; this desktop was considerably cheaper than anything in the inner room but served well enough for things like bookkeeping and communication. This was where Nick was seated when Carlos entered.

The slightly older stud was clearly eager; Carlos wasn’t fully in the room before Nick started talking. “Look at this,” he said, gesturing to an email he had up on the computer screen. “It’s a commission, and a damn good one—look at that amount!” The young killer sat casually on the corner of the desk and leaned his buff body inwards for a better view of the monitor; he blinked in surprise and grinned when he saw the number of zeros after the dollar sign. “Holy fuck—where’d that come from? What do they want?”

“They wanna cop scene with two vics. Busting a couple of fag whores, blackmailing them into sex and then snuffing them. One vic is strangled, the other—well, let’s just say they’ve seen your work and they want you to get creative with a blade.” Carlos chuckled at this news, and Nick noticed the bulge in the younger stud’s jeans swell visibly.

And the psycho killer said he wasn’t gay. Nick knew better, but he was too smart to admit it. He was also too smart to admit that this commission had been the result of his posting the video he’d secretly recorded of Carlos raping and murdering the young blond hustler. Carlos still had no idea his brutal performance had been witnessed—by this time—by many, many others.

“Oh hell yeah, I’m down for wastin’ more homos,” the buff, tattooed sadist smirked. “I take it you already got a plan. Any good meat lined up?”

Nick’s face broke into a broad grin. “Fuck yeah, man, you know it. I already have this one framed in my head to get the right shot. I was savin’ these two for a special occasion, and if this doesn’t fit the bill, then nothing ever will. Check these fuckin’ cunts out.” And with that, he pulled up a video file, moving his chair aside to give Carlos a better view as he did so.

“This was sent to me by someone who wanted to see them snuffed,” Nick added by way of explanation, “But they couldn’t fund the project and I wasn’t gonna waste my time on it. Now that we got a job, I’ll see how much these two fags want and offer them more.”

The video popped up to full screen; Carlos could feel his hog swelling even more within twenty seconds. It showed two dudes, one obviously older than the other, fucking in the missionary position. The older man was firm, fit, and looked like he was in his late thirties. He had light brown hair that was starting to recede slightly in the pattern caused by an excess of testosterone; he compensated with a short goatee that was almost a dark gold in color. His broad chest was covered with tightly curled fur and was almost—but not quite—as muscled as either Nick or Carlos.

The younger slut’s hair was lighter, almost blond, but was darkening in places. His form was slim and smooth, and he looked like he was in his late teens. He was the bottom in the sex scene; despite the way his handsome young face was twisted in the pain and pleasure of rough anal sex, there was still a noticeable resemblance between him and the older dude fucking him.

“This was shot a couple of years ago,” Nick said by way of explanation. “The older dude is Ed and the younger is Johnny. When this was shot, they were thirty-six and sixteen. Video came with contact info, see—I’ve already talked to them. They’re local—and they’re father and son. Seriously.”

As a chilly grin spread across Nick’s face, he could feel his own cock start to stiffen. “No shit, man; that’s the idea. You up for puttin’ ‘em down? I’ll take daddy and you can take son. We’ll set it up like the cop porno and fuckin’ waste the faggots with extreme prejudice. First, though—we gotta meet them.”

“What? Why?”

“I want them to feel comfortable. Nothing to alarm them. And we can set up the cop scenario—that’s what we’re being paid for, after all. Let ‘em know where the shoot’s gonna be, that sorta thing.”

Carlos’s face showed the reluctance with which he acquiesced; it was obvious he wanted to get hold of the incestuous pair and wreak havoc on their unsuspecting male bodies right away. “Yeah?” he demanded, “So where is it gonna be? Gonna whack ‘em in the condo?”

“Naw,” Nick chuckled, “I gotta better idea than that. Leave it to me, dude, just leave it to me…”

Four days later, on a much balmier Saturday, the long violet dusk of the desert was fading into blackness as Carlos stepped out of the bathroom in cheap but clean motel room. Looking around the room, he could see Nick, already in costume.

Carlos himself was dressed as agreed; he was role-playing a motorcycle cop. But since this was supposed to be “straight” gay porn, so to speak, he was dressed as the gay ideal of a motorcycle cop, which meant lots of black leather—tight leather pants tucked into a pair of nearly knee-high glossy motorcycle boots. Even the utility belt and shoulder harness were leather straps, the latter worn over his broad, bare chest. Shirtless, the winged skull tat on the ex-con’s left pec would be visible on camera, as would the fully inked sleeve on his right arm.

Picking up a classic black and white bike helmet from the dresser, Carlos turned to Nick. Around his throat, the massy links of his thick gold necklace glinted in the bleak light of the bare overhead bulb. “So?” he asked, “How do I look?”

Nick grinned appreciatively. “Those homos will be beggin’ for yer shaft when they see ya in that getup,” he chuckled, “But speakin’ of shafts, I can see the one in yer boot”. Glancing down, Carlos could see the hilt of his shank protruding from his boot. It was a Ka-Bar Becker, a Bowie combat knife with a nine-inch blade of jet black carbon steel, customized with jagged serrations. It was unlikely that the cocksuckers in the next room would notice it against his black leather gear, but there was no sense in taking a chance—he slid the viciously-edged weapon deeper into his boot.

Nick’s costume, while erotic, was slightly more conservative; a standard police uniform, complete with badge. On the other hand, it was two sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin, the white stripe running down the outside of the legs of the slacks highlighted his bulging thighs and muscular calves as it disappeared into Nick’s tightly laced combat boots.

“And them?” Carlos asked, nodding at a door in the side wall. “Are they ready?”

The door led to a connecting room in the cheap one-story motel Nick had found east of downtown, off the Boulder Highway—an old, run-down motor court with a defunct neon sign displaying the name Snake Eyes. During the initial meeting, he’d given Ed some cash to rent a room there on his own—then Nick had gotten the connecting room himself under an assumed name.

There had been some rocky moments in the initial interview; Ed and Johnny had been somewhat hesitant about the scenario. The rough sex wasn’t an issue, once they were told they’d be paid extra, but the cuffs were more of a concern—turned out they’d never done bondage before. It took the offer of even more cash to get them (well, Ed, actually, like a good boy, Johnny let daddy do the talking) to agree.

And even then, the older pervert demanded a down payment. Nick simmered with repressed rage as he handed five Franklins over to the well-built but slightly smaller man. That cash was gone for good, he reflected angrily; the fucker wasn’t likely to bring it back to the shoot.

Once the money was settled, though, things went more smoothly for a while. The meeting at the motel was arranged and the plot agreed to—Carlos and Nick were to bust in and find Ed and Johnny fucking; after separating and cuffing them, Carlos would fuck Johnny while Nick fucked Ed. Surprisingly enough, Ed—who’d only appeared in the video as a top—had no problem with the thought of taking Nick’s cock up his ass, but Johnny seemed intimidated by Carlos’s massive dong; both tops had been wearing revealingly tight jeans that day specifically to show off.

After a hurried, whispered conference between father and son, Ed spoke up in an embarrassed tone. Johnny thought Carlos was hot as fuck but, had admitted, the kid had never taken a dick that size and was gonna need something to help with the pain. It took another ten minutes of hemming and hawing for him to confess that Johnny wanted meth on the set.

Nick and Carlos glanced at each other. They didn’t particularly care what the fuckmeat did to itself, but they didn’t want to be inhaling those toxic fumes themselves. It was agreed that Johnny could smoke in the bathroom with the fan on prior to the killers entering the room.

And that was what was presumably happening on the other side of the connecting door right now. Nick had a video feed from one of the cameras he’d set up previously over there streaming to his phone; the screen showed Ed utterly nude but for the thin gold chain around his neck, from which a plain cross of the same shiny metal gleamed in a nest of his chest fur. The wiry muscles of his hairy body rippled as he paced the room, his long tool swaying as he turned.

The sick faggot was clearly impatient for his son to come out of the bathroom so he could fuck the slim teenager.

He didn’t have long to wait; the door opened suddenly and the blond kid walked out. Unlike his dad, he wasn’t nude; he sported a pair of plain white cotton briefs that barely contained his short but incredibly thick cock and cradled his smooth bubble-butt asscheeks. He’d left his sneakers on too, a pair of Puma Redon Moves in black.

There were two double beds in the room, each under the gaze of several different types of camera. Nick hadn’t left any angles uncovered by either video or a still camera set for multiple timed shots. As the father/son pair approached the bed on the left, Johnny’s face swam into view; even on the small screen of Nick’s phone, the kid’s twitching bloodshot eyes showed how hard the little fuck was tweaking.

Not that it mattered. The adolescent homo embraced the older man; as they kissed, each obviously thrusting his tongue deep into the other’s mouth, the family resemblance became very clear. The same deep brown eyes with long lashes, the same snub nose, dimpled chin and full, red lips—no one watching the scene could miss the fact that they were watching father and son indulging in incestuous gay sex.

Ed reached down and with a swift yank, jerked Johnny’s tighty whities down past his knees; they fell to the floor and Johnny stepped out of them, his fireplug-like dick popping up and smacking his abs, splattering his smooth flat belly with precum. Panting with lust, Johnny hopped onto the bed and, rolling onto his back, spread his kicks in the air as he waited for daddy to come mount and penetrate his ass. Ed was already there, his erect shaft probing at his teenaged son’s sphincter. The moment daddy rammed it in, Johnny grimaced and he let out a loud moan that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

Smirking, Carlos looked over at Nick, who nodded back. It was time. “Let’s get this show on the road,” Carlos, chuckled, then put his boot to the connecting door. Kicking it open, he drew the gun from his shoulder harness holster and burst into the other room. “Police!” he bellowed ferociously for the camera, “Everyone freeze!”

Nick followed, also with a drawn handgun—the guns were real but not loaded. After all, shooting the pansies wouldn’t have been any fun.

“Well, whadda we got here?” Carlos jeered.

“Looks like that report about faggot whores in this room was right,” Nick replied. “C’mon, ya sick perverts, up against the wall.”

Ed and Johnny disentangled themselves, got out of bed and slowly back away from the “cops”, hands in the air. “Isn’t there something we can do about this?” Ed asked, sticking to the script, “Some way we can work this out?”

“Yeah?” Carlos leered, “Like what?”

Ed looked over at Johnny. “Go on, boy,” he said, “Show him what.” With his father’s sanction, the firm, slim youth reached out and grabbed Carlos’s crotch, rubbing his hand over the enormous bulge in the black leather, fondling the long shaft. The boy’s eyes widened as his fingers slid over the detail of every vein wrapped around the monster hog; daddy wasn’t this big. Johnny was glad he’d gotten high first; he was gonna need it.

Ed, for his part, had reached out and started unbuttoning Nick’s tight shirt. “Hey, I think these cocksuckers are tryin’ to bribe us.” Nick laughed, slipping his gun back into the holster dangling from his thick belt.

“I think we need to take these faggots into custody, man, make sure they don’t try to get up to nothin’,” Nick drawled, shrugging off his black shirt. “Turn around and put yer hands behind yer back, ya queer-ass bitch!” he barked as he spun the older man around. Ed, fit but less powerful, was a top with his son, but the rough manhandling he was getting from the muscled stud was keeping his dick hard.

As Nick locked the steel cuffs around Ed’s wrists and, pressing the helpless bound man to the wall, began fondling him, Carlos turned to Johnny. A cold grin slowly crept over his sexy, cruel face as he reached up and slid the inch-wide leather holster harness strap off his right shoulder. “You too, boy,” he hissed at the slim, firm teen who was backing away, intimidation clearly showing in his face. “Turn around, bitch. You don’t wanna make me come after you.”

The threat implicit in the ex-con’s husky voice carried to his intended victim, if not to the kid’s father. But the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree; the harsh authoritative tone of command managed to fill the boy with both fear and lust. He obeyed implicitly, almost unconsciously, whimpering slightly as Carlos removed the harness completely. Placing the revolver on the dresser, he proceeded to use the leather straps to bind the teenager’s arms like a roast trussed for the oven.

“There ya go, boy,” the muscular, inked stud growled, “Now get over on the bed. We’re gonna show y’all how the law ‘round these parts handles faggots.” He pushed Johnny towards the bed on the left; the unexpected shove knocked the youth off-balance, causing him to stumble into the wall, knocking his head on the cheap pine paneling.

“Hey!” Ed yelled, “You leave him alone!” It was improvisation for the sake of the porn film—but there was a note of concern in the tone the both of the sadistic killers picked up on. “You too, cunt,” Nick spat out, “Sit down on that bed, motherfucker!”

As Carlos ran his hands over the teen’s smooth, silky skin, making the adolescent moan in anticipation, Nick stood spread-legged at the foot of the other bed, facing Ed. “Unbuckle my belt,” he commanded the well-built older man.

Ed winced and shuddered under the blow, but his erect shaft pulsed and squeezed out a dribble of precum. Nick chuckled. Oh yeah, this pansy liked it rough and hard.

Good—he was gonna get rough and hard in abundance.

In the meantime, though, he had to work his mouth assiduously on the thick leather strap of Nick’s belt. It took a while for him to get it undone.

Carlos, on the other hand, wasn’t into foreplay. He’d fondled the twink enough; now he was ready to fuck. Standing up, he undid the fly on the tight leather pants—not a zipper, but several buttons he needed to release. As his hand worked its way down his groin, his enormous rod suddenly fell out like a toppled tree—a big, thick log crashing down.

Johnny’s big brown soulful eyes grew wide; both fear and lust were reflected in them as the young fag was confronted with the longest, thickest cock he’d ever seen. The kid’s own shaft, already semi-hard and pulsing, sprang to full attention. Carlos leered down at the adolescent and chuckled. “Yeah, ya like that, dontcha, ya little cock pig? Put it in yer mouth, bitch.”

As his son started to suck Carlos’s cock, Ed, still seated on the other bed, had managed to get Nick’s belt undone. Now the latter had a new task for the older man’s mouth. Lifting his leg, he placed his thick-soled combat boot on Ed’s thigh. “Untie it, motherfucker,” he demanded, flexing a strong bicep in front of the manwhore’s face as a show of power. “Work it with yer mouth, slut, and hurry the fuck up, cause yer gonna do the other one too.”

Ed was more experienced with this kinda thing; there was no hesitation on his part as he bent his head forward and seized the woven nylon laces with his teeth. When he jerked his head to the side to free the knot, the side of his face brushed against the boot; like his son, his tool responded to the sexual stimulus by swelling and drooling precum.

“Fuckin’ bootpig pervert,” Nick sneered and Ed dripped even more.

It only took a couple of minutes for the older man to untie both boots and little more for Nick to unlace them to the point of being able to slip out of them. The entire time, the action was accompanied by the slurping sound of Johnny deep-throating Carlos’s shaft.

“Get on your back, faggot, and spread your legs,” Nick demanded, “Time for you to learn how much trouble yer in—see, cops on this beat know how to make you homos hurt. By the time we’re done reamin’ yer fuckholes, you won’t want any other men.”

Ed struggled to comply, scooting himself backwards up the bed as best he could with his hands cuffed behind him. Lying on his back was gonna hurt with the handcuff on, but he was gettin’ paid extra, so he’d deal with it.

On the other bed, Johnny was having a little trouble maneuvering himself, so Carlos grabbed his arm, lifted him up, and tossed him down on the bed. The kid’s cry of pain coincided with Nick’s sudden penetration of Ed’s sphincter; the older man’s face was twisted into a grimace of discomfort. He was gritting his teeth and trying for too hard not to cry out in pain himself to pay attention to his son’s distress. Besides, the boy liked getting hurt.

“You squeal like a worthless fuckin’ pig, boy,” Carlos growled menacingly, “I like that. Let’s see if I can make ya do it more.” Positioning himself between Johnny’s legs on the bed, Carlos propped the punk’s Pumas up on his own shoulders and slapped the swollen purple head of his dick against the teen’s quivering pink fuckhole, splattering the smooth asscheeks with clear precum.

Then, without warning, he rammed his rod home, spearing Johnny’s ass; his rigid tool tore through the boy’s colon, gouging the tender rectal lining and striking the prostate as it rocketed deep into the teen’s guts.

The look on Johnny’s face showed Carlos he’d gone too far—he’d wanted to make the kid yell, not scream, but his innate sadism had taken over. Quickly, he leaned forward and, clamping his large, strong hand over the punk’s mouth, squeezed it shut. Johnny’s shriek of agony was muffled to a high-pitched squeal as tears flowed copiously from his eyes.

In any other situation, the noise would have been both noticeable and startling; as it was, Johnny’ father was too busy getting fucked himself to care.

The small room, already crowded by two double beds, a cheap dresser and a single nightstand, was swiftly filling with the sounds and scents of man-on-man sex. Sweat and testosterone filled the air with an erotic masculine musk as two pairs of tightly entwined male bodies writhed on the beds, locked together and rutting in an excruciatingly sexual embrace.

Ed moaned and groaned with pleasure as Nick’s swollen shaft plunged deep into his intestines; Johnny, on the other hand, needed to be held down and muffled until his teenaged fuckhole had relaxed enough to accept Carlos’s cock. It took more than five minutes of powerful reaming for the kid to calm down enough for the ex-con to remove his hand; the mesmeric gleaming and jingling of the thick links in the stud’s gold necklace seemed to help, somehow having a calming effect.

“Just shut up and take my dick,” the powerful, tattooed alpha hissed at the youth, bound and pinned helplessly under his heavy muscles. Johnny’s true fag nature came to the fore; doing what he was told, he relaxed his ass muscle and accepted the thick tube of meat. Closing his eyes, the teen sank back into a sensation of both pleasure and pain, sighing as he heard his father’s staccato grunting—the older man was getting pounded good.

Ed had been right, the cuffs were painful as hell, given that his arms were compressed behind his back by not only his own body weight but that of the well-built fucker on top of him. But the violently intense shafting the handsome furry daddy was getting felt so erotic that he ignored both the way the metal cuffs were digging into the small of his back and the way his gold cross pendant had slid up his hairy chest to lodge uncomfortably under his chin. He simply spread his legs wider.

Ed didn’t get a chance to indulge his bottom pig side often, since Johnny was naturally an intense power bottom. He’d forgotten how good it felt to have a real man ramming a thick cock up his ass; it’d been far too long…

Lost in sexual indulgence, Ed paid no attention to what was happening to his son. The kid was doing what he loved the most, getting fucked, and that was all Ed knew.

So Ed never noticed when Carlos reached down and slowly withdrew the wickedly sharp blade from his boot.

Nick noticed; he was expecting it. He and Carlos glanced at each other; a quick nod was all that was needed to confirm that the action was about to swing into high gear. First, though, Nick grabbed Ed’s chin and jerked it away from the other bed. Simultaneously, the brutal convict leaned forward and slapped his hand over Johnny’s mouth, sealing the kid’s lips so he couldn’t scream. Then he flashed Johnny the knife.

The teen’s eyes grew wide with horror as he stared at nine inches of viciously-serrated steel. “Shh,” Carlos whispered, “Quiet, motherfucker or I’ll stick this in ya.”

Johnny was only eighteen; he’d never come up against anything like this in his short, wasted life. Lying helpless and bound on his back, with this sicko’s huge cock up his ass, the youth knew he was utterly trapped. His eyes scanned up Carlos’s ripped abs, past his massive inked chest, wiry fur matted with fucksweat, up to where the thick gold links glittered in the dim light. The blade, evil and hard, was matte black; it didn’t reflect light–a dark, cold presentiment of death.

Something was seriously wrong here, the teen realized—and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do to escape whatever nightmare was coming.

He was right.

Grinning maliciously, Carlos hunched down over the bound punk, so close that every frantic breath Johnny took was impregnated with mansweat and testosterone; terrified as he was, he responded instinctively to the pheromones. As the cruel alpha slid the sharp, icy tip of the Ka-Bar blade down, the smooth, silky skin of Johnny’s chest, the boy’s thick, fireplug dick began to throb and pulse on its own, standing up and slapping Carlos’s hard belly and splattering it with precum.

On the other bed, Nick was driving his steel-hard shaft into Ed’s ass, keeping the older man’s face turned away from the intimidation process his son was undergoing; daddy would see what was happening to his boy soon enough, but for right now, Nick wanted to make sure Carlos had a little sadistic fun.

After all, he’d have his own turn later. They’d worked out a symbiotic plan of snuff, cruelly effective, in which each would enjoy his own kill. Carlos got to go first; Nick got to watch.

And when it got bad, Ed got to watch, too.

Though cold terror had seized his soul at the sight of the vicious blade, Johnny couldn’t quite believe that anything bad was going to happen; this was the best fuck he’d even gotten. Even Dad wasn’t this well hung, this muscled, this well-wrapped in tight black leather–the smooth slickness of which Johnny could feel as his thighs brushed against Carlos’s powerful, pumping legs. Despite the older man’s hand gripping his mouth painfully, the boy could still smell the dark, masculine scent of the leather.

Carlos was enjoying himself, digging his shiny motorcycle boots into the sheets to help with traction as he thrust his massive rod into the kid. The teen’s large dark eyes glittered with both lust and fear—the prey was right where Carlos wanted it. “Hey, boy, ya sure seem to like gettin’ stuck with a long, hard shaft, huh? Yeah? So lessee how ya like gettin’ stuck with another one!”

Rising up over the bound, helpless teenager, the well-developed convict placed all his weight on the hand over the boy’s mouth. By this point, his other hand had reached the level of Johnny’s smooth, flat belly, now heaving in panic. Slowly and steadily, Carlos applied pressure, driving the razor-sharp blade into the skin several inches above the navel.

The knife was designed for killing; it slid into Johnny’s guts easily, like a hot knife into butter. Despite Carlos’s weight grinding his mouth shut, the youth’s high-pitched squeal was loud enough to catch his father’s attention. Nick let him look—it wasn’t as if he was gonna be able to help. Like Carlos, though, he understood the need to keep his victim quiet until fucker was fully controlled.

Clamping down on the older man’s mouth, Nick whispered in his ear. “Wanna watch yer boy die, motherfucker? I sure the fuck do, so shaddap and enjoy the show.” Ed was strong and fit, but not as strong or as fit as the younger man who was now pinning him to the bed; he kicked and jerked frantically, trying to reach his son, but it was going to take him a little time to learn how futile his struggles were.

For the moment, Ed was forced to lie there and take Nick’s cock up his ass while watching his boy suffer.

And Johnny was suffering badly. The serrated blade sliced down through his intestines but didn’t cut any major blood vessels on the way; Carlos was inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of fatal injury. That way he got to play with his meat longer.

“Fuck yeah, dude, that sure tightens yer ass up,” the sadistic ex-con jeered. “You must really be likin’ my blade. That’s whatcha been wantin’, huh, faggot? You been lettin’ daddy fuck ya for years, but he ain’t never hurt you good enough, huh? Go on and tell him, cunt, tell yer fuckin’ father how much you love me guttin’ ya like fresh kill!”

As he took his hand from Johnny’s mouth, Carlos twisted the nine-inch blade, now fully inserted into the teen’s belly, in the wound, then yanked it back out in a single, brutal jerk. The youth stared at the dripping knife, the small strings of flesh dangling from the serrations reflected in Johnny’s wide, glazed eyes. His mouth was wide too, but his pain was so extreme, all that came out was a single agonized croak. Shuddering violently, the poor kid turned to his father, appealing mutely for help—and seeing that there was none to be had.

Carlos, in the meantime, ran the tip of the blade down the teen’s left flank, then rammed the blade upwards under the rib cage. This time, the length of sharpened steel slashed through the punk’s spleen and liver. “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Johnny cried involuntarily as his body went rigid with shock.

“Aw hell yeah,” Carlos moaned, grinning over at Nick—and Ed. “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout, dude! Goddam boy pussy gets all good and tight—fuckin’ piece of fag meat! Shit, man, hope yours jacks ya off as good as this one when ya waste it, man!”

Nick chuckled, easily maintaining control as Ed’s struggles and muffled cries both became more frenetic. “It will, bro, I got it covered. Gonna take a while to put this one down, so go ahead and work that little bitch over. Daddy here needs some tenderizin’—he gets to watch.”

“Hear that?” Nick sneered into Ed’s incredulous, bewildered face, “You disgusting perverts are both gonna die tonight. Fuckin’ incest faggots—gettin’ both you and yer boy here killed, huh? Look on the bright side, cunt; yer both gonna die fulla manspunk—now don’t that make ya feel better?” The older man shook his head violently, as if trying to shake the words out of his ears; as his head whipped from side to side, his gold cross lodging in the crook of his neck as his furry pecs slid across Nick’s in the same direction. As their chest hair entwined, it was compressed and matted by a thin layer of sweat. Even in his fear for himself and his son, Ed was suddenly aware of how painfully erect his nipples were with each scrape of his chest.

And his dick was still erect too—what the fuck? Johnny was being murdered right in front of him, how the fuck could his dick be hard? Jesus, this guy’s cock, too, it hurt so fucking bad, it filled his ass so—

—and then a shrill scream from Johnny redirected Ed’s attention.

Carlos was in a rush of bloodlust. He knew the symptoms by now; the intense eroticism of every moan, every whimper he elicited from the meat; the utter clarity that allowed him to control the desperate youth who fought like the wounded and dying animal he was. He could feel the excitement start to build deep in his balls, but he’d need to exercise control over both himself and his meat to cum the way he wanted. And after all, this one was gonna be a money shot in the literal sense of the word.

The boy was sobbing softly, almost lost in shock, with the long Ka-Bar knife buried to its hilt in his left side. The belly wound was bleeding internally, but he wouldn’t bleed out from that for another half hour or so. This one in his side, though had cut that time to less than twenty minutes; Carlos was going to have to get the motherfucker to milk his cock before the little shit’s lights went out for good.

Good thing the kid responded to pain; he was about to endure a lot of it.

“Ok, you cumsuckin’ sicko,” Carlos growled, “Foreplay’s over. You ready to earn my load? Fuck no, you ain’t; no way no incestuous fairy like you ever gonna earn my cum—but I’m gonna make you work it outta me anyway.”

“Hey, asshole,” Carlos called across to Ed, “Yeah, you, motherfucker—did ya smack yer boy while fuckin’ ‘im? Y’know, give the little cunt a good whack across the face like he deserves? No? Too bad, asswipe; your pervert son likes pain. Fuck yeah, dude, that get ya off the way it gets me off? C’mon, lessee how much pain he likes—lessee how much I have to stick him to make me cum!”

Still without breaking eye contact with Ed—or the timing of a single thrust of his cock—Carlos jerked the knife from Johnny’s side, whirled it expertly in the air, and slammed it back down into the kid’s chest. The blade speared through the left pectoral, slipping between the ribs to puncture the left lung and come out Johnny’s back. By the time the hilt was resting on the teen’s chest, the tip of the blade had sunk three inches into the mattress.

It was a shame the involuntary reaction was so violent; the convulsive thrashing caused the embedded blade to shred the existing chest wound. “Fuckin’-A!” Carlos yelled as Johnny’s legs clamped tightly around his waist; the killer’s leather-clad legs pumped furiously as the stabbed teen flailed helplessly against him, his own chest hair matted into dark, wiry swirls.

Johnny had been held too tightly in an iron grip of pain and fear to think rationally, but this impaling thrust was driven home with an icy shaft of agony that somehow brought clarity to the tortured youth. The teen lifted his head, his pain-twisted face streaked with tears, his short hair now dark and slick with sweat. There was no trace left of his meth high; he strained his eyes to focus on the jingling links of Carlos’s chain dangling just in front of his face.

The horrible rigid metal shaft embedded in his chest was starting to overwhelm the kid; despite a minimum of outward bleeding, his chest cavity was starting to fill with blood. The pain in his lung, his guts, his ass—it was all starting to go cold and gray. His ears were ringing—what was happening here? He couldn’t quite remember…daddy had been fucking him and then there were cops…what had he done? Why was a cop raping him and killing him?

Daddy would know. Johnny turned his head and saw his father being held down and viciously fucked. Daddy was looking at him—and crying. Why was he crying? Johnny tried to reach out to him to no avail, then tried to speak. “Da—urk!” the teenager grunted as a bubble of blood burst from his lips and trickled down his chin.

“Daddy can’t help ya now, cunt,” the buff, inked sadist sneered. “And you still ain’t worked the spunk outta my tool yet—fuck, you’re even useless as a faggot, ain’tcha? Ok, looks like I gotta make yer ass work.”

“Hey look,” he called over to Nick, “I looked this one up online. If I do this right, I can make this boymeat convulse so hard his ass sucks my load right outta my balls—course, it’s gonna cause nightmarish pain. But after all,” he said, turning his handsome and gleefully malevolent face back to Johnny, “That’s what yer here for, ain’t it, meat? To suffer and die on my dick just so I can cum, right? So get to work, ya fuckin’ homo, start drainin’ my sack!”

With that, he pulled the knife out of Johnny’s chest with a flourish, sending a spatter of blood across the ceiling before he swiftly reversed the blade. Leaning forward, he placed one hand on the boy’s forehead, shoving the head back and the jaw up. “Time to die, fag,” he hissed as he placed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh on the underside of the jaw, about two inches back from the chin—and slowly inserted it.

The next thirty seconds were not only Johnny’s last, they were also the most nightmarish he’d experience. Carlos was lying flat on top of the suffering teen, the kid’s slick, smooth body writhing beneath that of the powerful convict; during the entire cruel ordeal, Johnny was aware of his helplessness under the crushing weight of his powerful killer.

And Johnny was aware—as gruesomely slow as the upward progress of the blade seemed to the one who was enduring it, it was still faster than death, or even unconsciousness by blood loss. Johnny experienced every single second of pain as nine inches of sharpened steel began to penetrate his skull.

As the knife inched its way up, it severed the boy’s tongue near the base before slicing up through the soft palate into the sinuses. “Fuuuuck…” Carlos moaned, glancing over at Ed and Nick, intertwined in an intense male embrace of lust and power. “The meat’s finally gettin’ it, bro, he’s sufferin’ so fuckin’ bad…”

Turning back, the cruel stud spat into the punk’s gray, agonized face; the teen’s wide, pain-crazed eyes were ringed with dark circles of shock. With a loud grunt, Carlos reapplied pressure to the knife. Immediately he encountered resistance; wrapping one tatted bicep around the top of the kid’s head, he shoved harder and was rewarded when the blade jerked upward with a loud crunching sound.

The expression in Johnny’s eyes as his septum shattered and the carbon steel blade ripped through his sinuses would be difficult to describe in words, but the grasping, shuddering convulsions that wracked the teen’s body culminated in his rectum, frantically (if involuntarily) milking Carlos’s swollen cock.

With a loud cry, Carlos went rigid and shot a stream of hot spunk deep into Johnny’s guts; at the same time, he clenched his biceps and shoved the knife violently. There was a crunching sound as the serrated steel blade tore free from the boy’s sinuses and thrust up through the brain, the tip embedding itself on the inside of the cranium.

At that point, Johnny ceased to be Johnny. The teenager’s eyes rolled back in his head; he no longer felt pain or terror or his last nightmarish seconds on earth. He also didn’t feel his death load, spontaneously generated by massive brain trauma. Carlos felt it, though; the adolescent’s sweating, heaving body suddenly went rigid—and then there was no teen boy left in Carlos’s arms, just a violently convulsing piece of meat that was orgasming explosively because it didn’t know it was dead yet. A geyser of hot sperm splashed up along the alpha’s abs, matting in his dark, wiry belly fur. A second, stronger—and longer—jet of spunk splattered on the scruff-covered underside of the killer’s jaw; thick streams of cum trailed off to smear across the winged skull inexpertly inked over Carlos’s left pec.

The muscular ex-con kept fucking the meat, grunting and snarling as the cumdump’s death throes worked wad after wad out of the killer’s stiff, unyielding shaft. When he’d finally emptied his huge, puckered sack, Carlos pulled out and knelt on the bed above the still-shuddering corpse. He reached up and yanked the knife out of the meat’s head—it took both hands and a little effort to pry it loose—and glanced over at the other bed. Nick, riding his prey like a bronco, grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

“Goddam, dude, that was one fuck of a money shot,” he said, chuckling, then spat into Ed’s face; the latter was weeping with his eyes shut. “Got me so fuckin’ amped up, I think it’s just about time to put this queer bitch down too. Here, toss me the phone; I’ll yank the cord out.”

“Naw, man,” Carlos replied, “Too much work. Here, use these.” With that, he spun Johnny’s trembling meat over and quickly untied the intricate knot he’d used on his holster harness; the corpse continued to thrash on the edge of the bed, but didn’t fall. “Here, use this,” he said, handing over the harness.

Nick grabbed one of the black leather straps and help it up. “It’ll work; thanks, bro.”

Carlos wanted to get a close-up of the action; there was camera mounted on a tripod on the far side of his bed—there hadn’t been enough room to pose one similarly by Nick’s bed—and he reached back to get it. The camera slipped from his hands; Carlos had to lunge for it, knocking the tripod over behind the bed. From this awkward position, he turned to move closer; in order to steady himself, he planted one boot directly on the back of the dead kid’s head.

And that was the moment Ed chose to turn his head and open his eyes. That was the image that was seared into Ed’s brain after watching Johnny’s horrific death—his boy’s killer posed on one knee over the quivering corpse, still-dripping hog hanging out of the tight leather pants, one boot grinding his poor dead son’s head into the mattress…he’d never get to fuck that sweet young ass again…

Despair rose up within the older man, despair that soon turned to terror once he remembered he was still helpless in the control of two younger, stronger sex killers. He opened his mouth—even he didn’t know if he was gonna beg or plead or just scream—but to no avail; as he did so, Nick wrapped one of the holster straps around his neck and pulled.

“Ready to join yer boy in a dirt nap?” the dominant sadist chuckled, twisting the inch-wide leather strap around his hands for better leverage, “Cause it’s time to die, dude; yer gonna die on my dick like a fuckin’ dog…”

The older faggot had been so wrought up by the sadistically cruel assault on his son that his concern for himself had been subsumed into a general sense of terror and panic; now that he’d been forced to watch Johnny being raped and tortured, the words of his tormentor meant little.

The fact that he couldn’t breathe, though—that was something else. He’d loved his son, in his own sick way—but he needed to breathe. Ed went rigid immediately, fighting for air; the secondary pain of his gold cross, caught under the strap and digging into his flesh, was but a minor annoyance at the moment.

“That’s it, cumsucker!” Nick crowed. “I knew ya had some fight left in ya; you faggots are too stupid to know death when ya see it. Well, don’t worry, cunt, it’s gonna take several minutes to choke the life outta ya; you’ll have plenty of time to learn that yer dyin’.”

As the crushing pain circling his throat intensified, Ed was also aware of how much harder his ass was being pumped by the younger, stronger top. And another presence—the other one, the one who killed Johnny—he was there, shoving a camera into Ed’s face.

And whispering.

“Hey, man,” Carlos was hissing, “Yer boy died hard. Didja like watchin’ it? Fuckin’ hot as hell, wasn’t it? It felt so fuckin’ good, makin’ him suffer, and now yer gonna do the same for my bro here, yeah? And the best part is, we been recordin’ it all. Dudes all over the world are gonna pay us so they can beat off watchin’ you and yer cocksuckin’ kid get snuffed—ain’t that sexy shit? Smile for the camera, asswipe, give ‘em a grin before ya get offed.”

The older man thrashed and heaved violently on the mattress, his chest and hard, flat belly writhing against Nick’s as their body fur interlocked like a zipper. His handsome face was growing congested as the holster strap sank deeper into his neck. His dark eyes bulged open, forcing him to stare into the faces of the two grinning alpha killers hovering over him, two hard, muscled men taking pleasure in his pain and suffering—

—and he was suffering. Nick had never stopped fucking him, but now the sadistic top was aggressively plunging his engorged tool deeper into Ed’s rectum than ever before; even this pleasure had become agony. The metal handcuffs that kept his arms twisted excruciatingly behind his back had dug in his wrists far enough to cut off the flow of blood to his hands; they were nothing but useless, throbbing lumps.

But the trauma being inflicted on his throat was merely the most unendurable; not only was his esophagus slowly compacting into a mangled mass, but his own pendant—the gold cross (that he’d always secretly superstitiously believed would protect him from the evil he now knew existed beyond any doubt) was compressed so firmly into the tender flesh on the side of his neck that it was literally tearing the skin, making a trickle of blood seep onto the sheets.

“Ya likin’ that shit, fuckwad?” Nick taunted his older but well-developed victim. “Yer ass is grabbin’ my cock like it wants more—fuck, man, if I’d known it took a good strong chokeout to make ya work my shaft right, I’d squeezed yer throat long before now. Hey, bro,” he called over to Carlos, “Did he teach his fucktoy kid right or did ya have stick ‘im first to have fun?”

“Naw, dude,” Carlos drawled, winking and sticking his tongue out at Ed’s swelling, horror-filled face, “Stupid sack of shit acted like he’d never had a dick up his ass till I slipped my shank into his guts—an’ even then, I hadda twist the blade in ‘im before he really showed how much he liked gettin’ buttfucked.”

“Shit, man,” Nick snarled down at Ed, “Like father, like son. Both of ya lousy fag fucks who need pain to teach ya how to take a real man’s hog, ain’t that right, cunt?”

The buff sadist pumped his tool up the dying porn star’s colon with ruthless efficiency; his biceps and triceps, already glistening with mansweat, began to bulge with the effort he put into cranking Ed’s windpipe permanently shut.

Ed could feel it, too, the effort Nick was expending on both his neck and his fuckhole. The jackhammer pounding of his frantic pulse in his head was echoed in the furious reaming that his rectum was enduring; there was a fiery ball of pressure that was swelling in his chest and his face was about to burst—and then his eyes…oh fuck, he couldn’t close his eyes, the hard, handsome faces of his killers hovering over him, so close they could kiss…with a sense of despair, he realized that their jeering triumph in his death would be the last thing he’d see on earth…

And still they tortured him, not just physically, but mentally as well.

Carlos was particularly cruel; as he sneered and spit on their helpless victim, his thick cock—still hanging out of his tight leather pants, dripping with cum—began to stiffen again. “I really got off on hurtin’ yer son, ya perverted fuck,” he whispered. “He was really cryin’ for his daddy when he died—too bad you were too busy gettin’ fucked, faggot. Know what part’s the best? Loadin’ him up with my seed. It don’t matter how many times ya fucked yer little boy in the ass, he’s gonna end up takin’ a nice long dirt nap fulla my jizz, not yers, asswipe.”

“Goddammit,” Nick barked in intense anger, “Yer gettin’ loose, old man. What, ya want it tighter—or ya need some more pain? Yeah, that’s it—just like any other faggot, I’m gonna hafta hurt ya to make ya grip my shaft right.” Twisting the ends of the strap together, the sweating, powerful killer yanked them to one side so he could hold them both in the same hand; as he did, Ed’s gold cross bent under the stress of the increased pressure, tearing an agonizing three-inch slash into the side of Ed’s throat as it did so. Sadly for Ed, it did no further damage—he had no hope of escaping his suffering by bleeding out.

But even that pain was soon overtaken by new suffering. The buff, strong—but not quite strong enough—musclebound victim hadn’t noticed the sidelong glance Nick had slipped Carlos. Carlos, did, though, and recognized it as a hint for a close-up. Zooming the camera in on Ed, he had a perfect angle to capture Nick balled-up fist raining blows into the bound, trapped stud’s dark, puffy face.

Nick paused to catch his breath; without dropping the tempo of his brutal assfuck, he pulled back a bit, still gripping the leather holster strap tightly in one hand. The lifted the meat’s head up from the blood-spattered pillow. Carlos leaned forward, allowing the fag’s battered and swollen face to fill the frame. Ed had been a strikingly handsome man of thirty-seven, with his testosterone-influenced receding hairline, his honey-gold goatee and the long lashes rimming his large, dark, liquid eyes.

The only thing recognizable in the bloody, pulped ruin now being captured on camera was the goatee surrounding the swollen, blue lips.

“Fuck, dude,” Carlos panted as he looked into Ed’s violently-beaten face, “I think this meat’s nearly done. Ya fucked it over real good, bro.” The erotic hoarseness in his voice was underscored by the steady transparent stream oozing from his by-now fully erect dick.

Semi-conscious in a universe of screaming pain, some pig corner tucked into the back of Ed’s brain heard and agreed. His own thick, vein-wreathed rod, already achingly stiff, smacking swiftly between his own and Nick’s flat, furry bellies in time to the rapid assfuck, suddenly began to splatter beads of precum everywhere.

“Yeah?” Nick grinned at Carlos (and the camera), his cruel sadism glinting in his eyes like a cold light. “Think it’s time to put the fucker down? Ya may be right, bro; I’m gettin’ kinda bored with these faggots. Guess it’s time to dump my load and split.”

He shifted slightly as Carlos moved closer to the headboard and reversed the angle, looking down on the writhing, interlocked male bodies, glistening with sweat and slapping together in a swift, animalistic rhythm.

Nick was close to shooting his load, but he recognized that he’d brutalized the meat too much for any further mental abuse to avail. He needed one final blow to the nervous system, quick, strong and fatally brutal, to make the faggot’s fuckhole tighten up around his cock.

He knew exactly what to do. Wrapping the strap ends around the palm of his right hand, Nick placed his right hand flat on the meat’s slick, heaving (but not breathing) chest. Lowering his face, the psychopathic sex killer glanced up at Carlos and the camera impishly through his own tousled bangs.

“Hey, bro,” he whispered, “Check this shit out.”

And then he jerked on the holster strap. Hard. Gritting-his-teeth hard, tendons-standing-out on his-neck hard, veins-standing-out-on-bicep hard. At the same time, grunting with the physical strain, he shoved his other arm down on the fuckmeat’s muscled chest. The buff older man’s face bent forward and his neck seemed to elongate. As his face turned down, his thick, protruding tongue pushed out of his mouth, forcing a long foamy stream of drool to fall into his chest fur.

“That’s it, cunt, time to go bye-bye,” Nick hissed and yanked again. There was a sickeningly loud cracking, crunching sound as the muscle-bound alpha literally tore his victim’s head off the top of his spine, crushing the esophagus and shattering three vertebrae simultaneously.

The impact to Ed’s nervous system was immediate. He died instantly, his entire musculature going rigid in a heartbeat. The muscles in his cock stiffened, forcing a violent eruption of semen from his agonizingly erect shaft. The first load was so abrupt and intense, it actually shot between his head and Nick’s, splashing against the wall three feet above the top of the headboard—although some fallout landed in his dark blond hair.

At the same time, his colon and lower intestines contracted around Nick’s engorged cock; it was like a hand in a velvet glove jacking him off. With a loud, inarticulate cry, Nick flooded the meat’s guts with boiling sperm. He continued to twist Ed’s head around, mangling the spinal column.

This triggered Ed’s second deathload, a steady jet of spunk that lasted a good ten seconds straight, spewing huge pearly loads of spunk all over both his chest and that of his killer. This load, though was interrupted by a third one, form a different source.

Still holding the camera, recording all the action, Carlos had shot a second wad completely hands-free. Recorded for the paying viewers to see, his thick, creamy load squirted a flood of hot manseed over both the corpse and its killer.

“That’s it, bro,” Nick gasped hoarsely, “Spunk all over that fuckin’ faggot!” Inwardly, he exulted in feeling Carlos’s hot semen splatter on his chest, but, still ejaculating uncontrollably himself, he didn’t process the emotion; he could only shudder and shoot.

Several cum-drenched minutes later, Nick and Carlos both found themselves in enough control of themselves to disengage from the bed and get themselves cleaned up. Carlos moved first—largely because, unlike Nick, his dick wasn’t stuck in a quivering corpse. Retreating to the bathroom to wash up, he chuckled with contemptuous amusement at Johnny’s meth pipe sitting on the top of the toilet cistern, along with a lighter and small baggie partially full of powder. He left them alone.

Nick, for his part, withdrew his leaking shaft for the dead man. He rolled Ed over and uncuffed him; when he did, the shuddering body slid limply to the floor with a thump. Picking up his discarded cop outfit, he went back through the connecting door into the adjoining room, using that bathroom to wash off the evidence of violent sex.

By this time, Carlos had finished up and returned into the death room. He gathered up his own gear, including the gun and the holster harness Nick had used to kill Ed; that took a bit of time to recover, given how deeply it was embedded in the meat’s neck. At one point, he ground his boot into Ed’s face to hold his head down as he pried the strap out of the corpse’s crushed throat. He carried the armful of gear back into the other room and dumped it on the bed, only to be brought up short when Nick asked, “Where’s yer shank, bro?”

He couldn’t remember what he’d done with it. He went back into the other room and began poking around on the bed; almost immediately, he noticed it tangled in the sheet on the other side of the teenager’s cooling, stiffening corpse. It was still covered in gore, so Carlos used the cheap motel sheet to wipe it down; his actions made the bed shake slightly. Not enough, but enough to dislodge Johnny’s body. The dead teen rolled off the bed, landing on top of his father’s corpse. Ed was face-up and Johnny face-down; they’d have been looking each other in the eye, had Johnny’s eyes not been rolled too far back in his head that only the whites showed from under his half-open lids.

Just then, Nick came back into the room. “Aw, ain’t that sweet,” he jeered, “the faggot lovebirds united forever in death. Let ‘em rot there. You get the cameras on that side an’ I’ll get the ones on this side. We should be able to clear out in about half an hour or so.”

Because of the layout of the room, the bodies on the floor between the beds made it difficult to reach everything on his side, which might account for what happened later. But Nick had been right; they were gone within thirty minutes.

The bodies weren’t found for another eighteen hours; the maid who found them subsequently required psychiatric treatment, as did one of the two first responding police officers. The other, a twenty-six year old rookie named Rog, found a camera tripod that had fallen behind one of the beds. Even before the autopsy results revealed that both males had been raped as well as murdered, Rog had realized that someone, somewhere, had a video of what happened.

And despite the tremendous swell in publicity surrounding the case once DNA results revealed that the victims were father and son, Rog kept his surmises to himself, and laid his plans.

Nick was laying plans, too. The commission was not only paid promptly, it included a sizeable gratuity—and a distribution agreement, with a percentage on the gross.

“Shit, bro, we’re gonna be fuckin’ millionaires,” he laughed a week later. He and Carlos were both sitting in the office. “I already paid the condo off. Think I’m gonna soundproof that second bedroom. We can have all kinda fun in there.”

Carlos didn’t care; Nick was giving him all the cash he needed. He had wheels and a crib—and the opportunity to waste any fag he wanted, when he wanted…how he wanted…

“Cool, dude,” he drawled contentedly. “Ya got any new hits?”

“I got a message yesterday, saying somthin’ might be coming. Believe it or not, I haven’t checked email yet; I was too busy payin’ off debts. Lessee if we got anything.”

Turning on the monitor, Nick fired up the PC, grinning broadly. Part of it was the financial—and artistic, so to speak—success. But part of it was what he’d learned about Carlos. Straight, my ass, some cold, calculating part of his mind thought—he mighta gone into prison straight, but he came out a full-blown fag. That might come in handy someday.

It took a while for the system to boot up; it took even longer for the email to come up. Carlos had lost interest and was surfing on his phone when a loud ping echoed through the office. Nick clicked on a couple of things, then his eyes grew wide.

It was a Friday night, so of course the bar was full. Dylan was thrilled—he knew, naturally, that it wasn’t all for him, but it still made him feel good. The crowded bar wasn’t the only thing that was making him feel good; he’d already slammed three beers and smoked a joint before he’d left the house. He was primed for a party.

Specifically, his eighteenth birthday party.

Legally, he never should have been let in the door, but he’d been selling weed inside the bar for over a year by a simple expedient—going to into the back with Don, the owner, and letting the older man bend him over his desk and fuck his ass. He’d had a free pass ever since, even being allowed to buy alcohol, as long as Don got to plow his hole on occasion.

Tonight, Don was out. That was fine with Dylan. Even though he was attracted to older men, Don was a duty fuck. Tonight, the boy wanted fun. He wanted a real man.

Dylan had plenty of cash—he was also the main (but not the only) pot dealer for the county high school. And looking around, he could see some of his classmates at the bar and another one on the dance floor. He knew them; they’d gotten in with fake IDs. Unless they wanted to buy some smoke, they left him alone and vice versa—they all already knew he wasn’t into twinks, despite being such a beautiful one himself.

Dylan was well-built and almost exactly six feet tall. He had dark brown hair of moderate length. It was styled in silky waves over his forehead, almost obscuring the long lashes surrounding his large dark brown eyes.

Since he wanted to be the center of attention on his birthday, he sported a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, white, with the famous logo across the chest. It was thin, worn cotton, two sizes too small—it fitted his torso like a second skin, making obvious the twink’s large pecs, flat belly and hard, erect nipples.

Under the t-shirt, his legs were displayed in a pair of basic Adidas basketball shorts, black with red strips. Long, slightly furred calves descended into a pair of ped socks, almost invisible deep inside his red Nike Jordan Horizon hightops.

Dylan had always looked younger than his age; even now, based on his appearance, most people thought he was no older than sixteen. The Asian ideograms tattooed down the inside of his lower left arm (he had no idea what they meant, if anything; he just thought they were cool) and the small solid gold hoops in his pierced ears only added to the confusion regarding his age.

He didn’t complain, though—he could get laid anytime he wanted, by any guy he wanted; his model-like looks guaranteed his ability to pick and choose. Shame he had no better place to bestow his charms than this dive; the highway nearby had a truck stop which lured in a few eligible prospects, but otherwise Dylan knew all the regulars—and wanted nothing to do with them. He already knew he was too good for them. But it was a Friday night and the pickings could be good. He’d just have to see what showed up.

He didn’t have to wait long. He’d already downed three rum and cokes at the bar before crossing back to the dance floor when he noticed the stud who’d just walked in the door—and froze. It only took a single glance for the teen fag to realize that this dude would be the perfect birthday gift to himself.

As tall and well-built as Dylan was, this hot motherfucker was even taller and more buff. Obviously a dominant alpha, the stud strolled in with a wide-legged stance that bespoke a massive set of tackle between his legs.

The older man wore a dark blue sleeveless t-shirt that emphasized not only his incredibly-sculpted chest but also his thick, bulging biceps. His tight, faded jeans were worn so thin that the head of his huge cock was clearly outlined in his crotch.

The jeans were tucked inside a pair of dust-yellow construction boots. Left laced but untied, the uppers, with a black leather band around the cuff, came halfway up the calves of the undeniably arousing stranger.

The stranger’s face seemed to be covered with a dark, wiry scruff, but it was hard to make out under his cap—a black trucker’s cap, mesh in the back with a solid fabric front and the word “Rogue” embroidered on it.

He already knew—this was it. Dylan had decided that he was gonna have this hot fucking alpha inside him before the night was out. Wasting no time, he struck out across the dance floor, anxious to hit the stud up before anyone else could.

For his part, the Trucker had already taken notice of the hot young slut. Most of the dudes in the bar were in jeans and t-shirts or short sleeve button downs; there were a lot of caps and boots. A few twinks writhed and undulated on the dance floor in skinny jeans and expensive kicks—but none of them stood out like the teen punk heading towards him.

And that was good. It’d been a couple of weeks since he’d last had the chance to vent his sexual anger; even now, the thought of how the last meat had twitched and quivered as its life was choked out with a wallet chain made him horny.

The alpha killer was primed and ready to blow; all he needed was suitable prey—and that difficulty seemed to be surmounted already. He stared down at the boy as the latter strutted towards him; the kid clearly thought he was hot shit.

“Hey, man,” the cocky teen drawled, posing with one hip jutted forward. “It’s my birthday—I turn eighteen at midnight—and I deserve somethin’ special. Whaddaya say—I’ll get us a room at that place down the street and you can plow my ass. Think you can do that?”

The Trucker glared down at the arrogant little fucker, a slight smirk on his face—which actually took some control. Jesus, this stupid twink bitch needed to be put down hard; just the thought of teaching the teenaged faggot his proper place made the cruel stud’s dick pulse and throb.

And his jeans were so tight, it was obvious.

Dylan saw it and blinked. Fuck, the dude must be almost literally hung like a horse, the way his trouser snake—trouser python—wriggled in his crotch and down his leg. And his own cock responded in kind, visibly tenting the groin of his black athletic shorts. The boy’s lust was obvious, painting a bright gleam in his dark, nearly liquid eyes.

“I can do that, bitch,” the Trucker said in a low, cold monotone.

Suddenly cowed, Dylan found that he couldn’t look the stud in the face. His eyes were naturally drawn to glinting reflections on the older man’s massive chest. Keeping his gaze on them—they appeared to be dog tags—he stuttered, “O-ok, ma-man, let’s g-go. I’ll, uh, I’ll get us room at the Shamrock Inn next door.” Gulping deeply, he glanced up at the towering stud’s face, as if seeking approval.

The Trucker remained still, not moving a muscle.

“Ya-ya w-wanna go?” the punk quavered.

The alpha chuckled deeply, a bass note that vibrated along the root of Dylan’s dick. “Ok, boy, I’ll bang yer boycunt if that’s what ya need. Go get the room, faggot; I’m gonna grab a brew.” And with that, the Trucker strode across the dance floor towards the bar, his hulking, powerful form parting the twinks like a bull moving through tall grass.

Staring after him, Dylan’s breath hitched with erotic anticipation. His dick was pulsing in his shorts; he could already feel the precum oozing from the tip. He headed out of the bar and crossed the gritty acre of asphalt that served both the bar and the motel as a parking lot.

Despite his drunkenness, the handsome young slut managed to successfully navigate the litter-strewn expanse. He entered the dingy office and greeted the wizened old Indian clerk like an old acquaintance, as indeed he was. “You again?” the old man asked in a clipped British accent.

“Hey, Anjit,” Dylan replied, “That one on the end open? In the back—you know, 130?”

“No,” the clerk replied, “But the front wing is completely empty.”

“Gimme one in the middle,” the kid said, taking a moment to brush an errant lock of silky hair up out of his eyes. “I got a live one tonight; want some privacy.”

The elderly Indian slid the key across the counter with an air of resigned dignity; he clearly didn’t care what Dylan had planned.

The teen turned to leave, but paused once he reached the door. “Oh—and, Anjit?” he said, turning back, “I’ll probably wanna sleep in after this one. If the lock works as bad as the one on 130, tell that stupid spic bitch that picks up the used rubbers to leave me alone, huh? She can clean up once I check out.”

The clerk nodded and picked up a pen and pad of paper to note the request. Once Dylan was out the door; Anjit put the blank, unused pad down and headed back into the rear office, already putting the transaction out of his mind.

After all, he’d be doing this for at least a dozen faggots on a Friday night. He couldn’t keep track of them all and had no intention of trying.

The night was unusually warm for the time of year; it was very obvious to Dylan after the overly-chilled motel office. The room was a couple of doors down on his left; as he waited, unsure of whether he should go to look for his birthday stud (and with a sudden pang of concern that perhaps he’d been dumped—not likely given his looks, he knew, but still…) when suddenly he heard the heavy measured tread of a muscular man in boots.

Glancing in the direction of the footsteps, he saw the hunk approaching and felt a thrill run through his groin. Inadvertently, the Trucker had positioned himself between Dylan and the security lights of a used-car lot across the street; as a result, the hulking alpha’s phenomenal body was illuminated in silhouette, highlighting his powerful and perfectly-developed physique.

The well-built teen’s natural adolescent horniness had been enhanced by his chemically-altered mental state; between the bud and the booze, the punk was so ready to get laid that he could barely contain his excitement. He gulped, then called out. “Over here—number 103.”

Hearing the kid’s voice, the Trucker glanced up and ambled in his direction. The room was in the front of the building, but the entire wing seemed to be virtually empty. The vicious psycho smirked—it would do.

An adequate pit for slaughtering the little homo pig.

Dylan had already reached the room and opened the door. Reaching in, he flicked on the light to reveal a dark and dingy room. The towering alpha followed the twink in, shooting the deadbolt and setting the chain as the kid moved forward to turn on the bedside lamp. More light revealed cheap worn furniture. Cheap-ass particle board with peeling brass accents and papered veneer pocked with cigarette burns. At least it was a matching set, the Trucker thought, and about thirty years old.

In his eagerness, Dylan was already turning down the thin scratchy polyester to reveal the old yellowed sheets underneath, reeking with an industrial bleach smell. The cunt’s presumption amused the Trucker; hauling out his pack of Marlboros, he lit a smoke and wandered in to check out the bathroom.

His boots thumped loudly on the tile floor. The bathroom was decrepit, with loose shower tiles and dripping taps, but it seemed to be reasonably clean. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink, the Trucker lowered the bill of his cap some—just enough to obscure his face, leaving only his strong, stubble-covered chin visible.

Walking back into the room, he saw that the bitch had stripped the bed—only the pillows and the fitted sheet remained. The teen punk stood at the foot of bed, facing the bathroom door, massaging the extremely obvious bulge in his crotch. The Trucker leaned in the doorway, this time with the deliberate knowledge of the impact his silhouette was having.

The muscled stud curled his lip. “Strip, cunt,” he sneered, taking a drag of his cigarette, “Let’s see if yer faggot ass is worth my dick.”

Dylan moaned softly as peeled his Rolling Stones t-shirt off his smooth, strong torso. His body wasn’t quite beefy enough to qualify for the football team, but it was close. Not that Dylan was interested in football. Football players, on the other hand…

“Did I stutter, bitch?” the Trucker snapped. “I said strip. That mean yer shorts too, boy.” He grinned, feeling his own thick meat swelling and pulsing. This kid liked to be dominated—that was good. The Trucker had no problem with the thought of dominating him; his boiling rage was gonna dominate the little fucker to death.

Dylan dropped his shorts, freeing his thick tool to bob about and splatter precum everywhere. Among other places, transparent drops of hot pre-ejaculate darkened the honeycomb pattern on his red Nike Jordans, all that he was left wearing. Nude but for his footgear, the teen slut was ready and anxious to get fucked.

The meat’s eagerness and anticipation was obvious; the Trucker had no intention of satisfying it quickly. The twink needed to suffer in all things, including its expectations.

As the kid stood trembling in front of him, the Trucker parked his smoldering butt in an ashtray on the dresser and pulled his own sleeveless T off over his head, maneuvering carefully so that his trucker cap remained placed exactly where he wanted it. Stepping forward, he loomed over the teen by at least a good half-foot.

“You want my dick, faggot?” he demanded.

Dylan gulped, unable to catch his breath. The Trucker’s face twisted in anger.

“I asked you a question, you stupid motherfucker,” he snapped and backhanded Dylan across the face, smacking the kid’s head sideways. The young pansy gasped and moaned loudly; at the same time, his huge semi-soft cock got hard, spurting out more precum across the room before sinking back to drizzle the clear fluid on his expensive kicks.

The Trucker noticed—and barked out raucous laughter. “Ya like that, do ya, faggot? Ya like a good beatdown, you worthless cocksuckin’ fairy? Fuck yeah, yer just the bitch I been lookin’ fer, fag—you like it rough, yeah? Huh? Answer me, ya queer-ass cunt! Ya want me to ream ya like the whore ya are, right?”

“Yes—” Dylan had time to gasp before the Trucker unzipped his fly. It took a bit for hulking top to excavate the entire length of his enormous, pulsating manmeat, but the teen homo’s attention was focused entirely on the spectacle unfolding in front of him.

The Trucker loomed before him, his massive chest darkened with wiry manfur except where the dogtags gleamed between the two huge hubcap pecs. Below, his almost-frightening horse dick jutted proudly from the groin of the faded jeans that still clung tightly to his strong legs, bulging with muscles. His open workboots, reaching to mid-calf, were planted wide apart in a domineering, open-legged stance.

“Ya want this cock, boy? Ya think ya deserve it?” he jeered.

Dylan nodded blankly; he absently wiped his lips with the back of his hand—an instinctive reaction since he was utterly unaware that he’d been drooling. His cocky young arrogance reasserted itself. “Yeah, man, I deserve it. Toldja it’s my birthday, didn’t I?” he slurred in drunken lust, “I deserve some nice dick on my eighteenth birthday, dude—and after all I paid for the room, yeah?”

The Trucker paused for tension-filled moment, picked up his smoke and found it nearly all burned to ash. Taking a final drag, he ground it out and stepped forward. The shadow cast by the brim of his cap cast hid the expression in his eyes, but the grim twist to his lips and the firm set of his chiseled jaw clearly showed the contempt he felt—not that Dylan was sober enough to recognize it.

The booze was flowing full strength through the teen’s bloodstream by this point; the beers he’d drunk before hitting the bar had been superseded by the four rum-and-cokes wannabe admirers had bought him at the bar. Dylan had been both drinking and smoking pot for more than five years, but he was more tanked tonight than he’d been in a long time.

In other words, he felt both invincible and entitled. And he was too fucked up to realize how dangerous that attitude was in his current situation.

And at that moment the Trucker straightened up, his cock suddenly starting to pulse. Transparent beads of pre-ejaculate started to drip from the thick, mushroom-shaped head. The cold, cruel mouth visible under the shadow on the alpha’s face curled into a malevolent grin.

“Yeah, cunt, that’s what ya want? I can do that too…”

And with that, the Trucker stepped forward again, even closer to Dylan. The young gay slut inhaled abruptly as the muscular alpha was suddenly within arms’ reach, an intimidating and threatening presence. As his nostrils filled with the scent of pheromones and mansweat, laced with nicotine, the kid turned his dark eyes, the whites stained with red, up to the older hunk’s inscrutable face.

And that was when the Trucker’s powerful arm lashed out, diving his fist into the youth’s face and snapping his left cheekbone.

Dylan fell back directly onto the bed in shock. He knew he’d been hurt badly. Clutching the side of his face, he gaped at his attacker. “Wh-wha—” he stuttered, the sharp pain in his cheek making it difficult to form the words.

“That was one,” the towering alpha sneered down at the boy cowering on the bed. “How old didja say ya were gonna be—eighteen? And look, it’s past midnight. So ya got seventeen more coming, ya little sack a’ shit. And unless you want the next one to break yer nose, ya better start gulping down my cock. Now, faggot!”

Reaching out with his large, paw-like hand, the Trucker grabbed a hank of Dylan’s silky brown hair and jerk his head forward viciously. The teen opened his mouth to cry out in pain only to find it plugged with a thick wad of throbbing flesh, oozing a stream of thick, salty fluid. Before he knew what was happening, the monstrous tube of manmeat had been shoved past his tonsils and down his esophagus.

The pain in Dylan’s cheek became a piercing agony as his face was stretched out of shape; combined with the sudden cessation of oxygen as his air was cut off, the young slut was stunned both literally and metaphorically. His birthday present was going horribly wrong and he didn’t know why or how—it made no sense, it couldn’t really be happening…

The Trucker knew the thoughts racing through the cunt’s sad excuse for a mind. All these young cockpigs were the same; no concept of their own mortality until it was staring them in the face. He chuckled deeply as he forced his enormous shaft down the punk’s throat; this evening was turning out better than it had started.

He’d left his rig at a truck stop on the other side of the interstate, then walked to the bar on the offhand chance of finding a decent fag on which he could work out his anger issue. He’d actually been accosted by a hustler in the darkness of the highway underpass, a scrawny, cadaverous addict with missing teeth and a rancid odor. He aroused nothing but disgust from the Trucker and putting the fucker’s lights out with a blow to the head didn’t provide him the vent he needed; it just served the purpose of shutting the skank up.

Now, though, he had this entitled, cocky-ass little fuck in his control. Several long days in the driver’s seat had left him with a violent need to drain the built-up manseed in his balls.

Birthday boi was gonna suffer—bad.

And the worthless little fuck seemed to want to suffer. It might simply have been a twitch in the muscles from having his jaw pried open so wide, but suddenly the Trucker could feel teeth. And that was bad—for Dylan.

Using his handful of hair as a handle, he jerked the kid’s head back off his dick. The moment his airway was clear, Dylan began gagging and coughing up his drool on the Trucker’s thick tool. “Big mistake, you stupid motherfucker,” the muscular alpha hissed, “I guess that means you ain’t no good at givin’ head. That means I gotta buttfuck ya to get off, cunt, huh? Stand up. Now, you goddam faggot!”

Stunned and shuddering the well-built teen climbed shakily to his feet, standing trembling at the foot of the bed. His face was still beautiful but with his left cheek swollen and bruised, a little less perfect. Tears leaked from his eyes and snot from his nose as he glanced up at older top.

Fear prevented Dylan from making eye contact with the Trucker; the cowed youth turned his gaze from the massive hog bobbing in the air in front of him, glistening with his own spit, up along the fur-covered ripples of the alpha’s buff abs. Above that, the body hair widened out into a dark, wiry forest spread across the top’s broad chest. In the declivity between the hubcap pecs a pair of dogtags caught both the light and Dylan’s eyes.

“Think yer due for another birthday bash, faggot?” the Trucker jeered. “Need a little tenderizin’?”

Stunned and shocked, the twink’s attention was focused on the shiny objects; he could hear the words but the ominous meaning failed to penetrate his drug- and fear-clouded mind. The killer noticed—unfortunately for Dylan, since it aroused his sadistic brutality.

And with that, he slammed his fist into Dylan’s jaw with all the force of a train wreck, snapping it into three pieces. The teen slut made an odd sound, a kind of gurgling shriek, and dropped like a sack of potatoes. With a lightning-swift reflex, the Trucker reached out and snatched at the now-tousled brown hair again. Grabbing a fistful, he pivoted and tossed the boy across the room.

He didn’t toss the slut at random, though. In front of the yellowed drapes covering the window was a round table flanked by armchairs; Dylan smashed into it just at waist level. His torso smacked down onto the table, which tipped back, struck the AC unit under the window, and bounce back upright.

As the Trucker approached, the teenaged homo was bent over the table, chest down, quivering and helpless in agony, his legs hanging down with his red Jordan kicks just barely touching the floor. His pink, pulsating fuckhole was clearly visible; the cruel alpha smirked as he aimed his huge dripping hog at the puckered hole in the twink’s bubble butt.

In a nightmarish haze of excruciating pain, Dylan clutched the edge of the table tightly, blubbering as blood trickled down his ruined chin. Although he’d miraculously escaped losing a tooth, the slightest movement of his mouth slammed waves of agony into his head. He struggled just to maintain consciousness, barely noticing the sudden pressure on sphincter.

Then it wasn’t pressure anymore; it was an engorged, vein-wrapped tube of hard pulsing manflesh—and it was in him. All the way.

The Trucker had thrust his cock deep into the kid’s ass, his thick precum the only lube. The swollen purple head hadn’t hesitated at the resistance of the youth’s ass muscle; worn out with regular buttsex as it was, it still couldn’t accommodate the muscled alpha’s powerful tool. With a faint grunt, the brutal rapist rammed his shaft home, tearing Dylan’s sphincter in two places.

The tsunami of sharp, glassy pain that tore through the teen’s ravaged fuckhole was too much; he passed out on the Trucker’s dick. The sweating, heaving top spent the next few minutes pumping his shaft doggy-style into the unconscious punk’s torn and bleeding ass.

The hard-bodied boy awakened into the same universe of suffering that he’d left; his first sensation in the darkness of semi-consciousness was the searing pain in his torn colon and he instinctively started crying. That triggered the second sensation—the agony of broken bone ends grinding together in his jaw. He was forced to taper off to a faint, high-pitched keening noise.

Grabbing a hank of Dylan’s long (and now badly tousled) brown hair—reaching up to snatch a fistful near the forehead in front—he yanked the kid’s head back. With no warning, he slammed his other fist like a piston into the back of the teen’s skull.

The idea behind a donkey punch is that the blow to the head makes the sphincter tighten. The Trucker hadn’t actually tried it before; much to his surprise, it actually worked. Ripped and bleeding, Dylan’s ass muscle still managed to cinch around the hairy base of the sadist’s shaft like a cock ring.

The stunned teen moaned as his body responded to the punch by clenching up; even his toes curled as his red Nike hightops kicked and scraped at the carpet. Gripping the table tightly, he tried desperately to pull his head away but the alpha’s grip on his scalp was too firm; despite the horrific agony involved in moving his mouth, he began to sob and beg inarticulately, knowing that he was unable to escape the vicious assault.

With that, he popped the little shit in the back of head again, this time a little harder so the he was rewarded with even more tightening. The young fag’s rectum gripped his huge vein-wrapped cock like a velvet glove, squeezing it and caressing it. Not one to miss an opportunity, the Trucker shifted his muscular, denim-sheathed legs, planting his workboots further apart for better traction, and doubled the speed of his hard, driving buttfuck.

By now, Dylan was clinging to the table with his head pulled up, curled painfully backwards. His pain-wracked face streaked with tears, his head was being violently shaken to the same tempo as his brutal assrape. His attempts to beg had become random syllables of pain force from his mangled mouth along with a thin stream of drool, pink with blood.

“Shit, motherfucker, I’m gonna like puttin’ you down; I can control yer meat real good. I don’t even need you to be alive for you jack me off, ya worthless faggot, ya hear me?”

Dylan heard words but no meaning; things were starting to go grey at the edges and there was a loud buzzing in his head; he welcomed the fuzziness, since it might make the pain go away…

The powerful, well-skilled sadist sensed he was losing his audience. He wasn’t done with this one yet, not by a long shot. The cruel serial killer still had a lot of rage to vent—and a lot of cum.

He pounded one more roundhouse into the fucker’s cranium. The youth’s reaction was swift; he thrashed out with both arms and legs as he lost consciousness again. The Trucker pumped the suddenly re-tightened fuckhole furiously, leaning forward, lowering his weight onto his victim’s limp form—

—and that was when the table gave way. Tipping forward, it impacted the AC unit under the window hard enough to bend the metal vents out of shape; with a loud splintering sound, the circular top tore free from the metal base column. Everything collapsed to the floor with a loud crash—top, base, the chairs on each side, and, of course, Dylan.

He went to the ground still impaled on the Trucker’s dick. The experienced top had understood what was happening. Even though it was too late to prevent it, he’d managed to turn and extend his arm, catching himself easily and breaking his fall; with his other hand, he’d caught at the boy, pivoted, and slammed him to the ground.

Reluctantly, though, the alpha knew he had to pull out; he needed to make a quick security check. He’d just made a lot more noise than he liked in a public motel. Withdrawing his long, pulsing shaft, he left Dylan slowly shuddering his way back to tortured awareness and glanced out the window from a chink in the drapes. Nothing moved in the darkness beyond, but he still wanted to give it a minute, just to make sure everything had settled down.

Digging his smokes out of his pocket, he lit one and sat on the foot of the bed. As he smoked, reassuring himself all was quiet, he could watch the meat slowly regain consciousness. The cunt trembled and gasped before rolling over so the he now faced the bed, hid eyelids fluttering open to reveal his rolled-back eyes, white streaked with red.

As the kid painfully came to, the gray dimness of his vision was first pierced by a pair of bright glints of light; as he became more able to focus, he could see the dogtags buried the muscular stud’s chest fur. Looking up, the coldly handsome face was still partially shaded by the trucker’s cap. When he got out of the, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to ID a photo of his rapist.

Because he was gonna get out of this, Dylan knew; he was hurt but he wasn’t dead. His birthday had turned into an unimaginable horror story—some deep pig part of him still wanted this violent, erotic dominant top—but the thought that he wasn’t going to survive this ordeal never seriously crossed his mind.

The Trucker hit his cigarette again, exhaling in the kid’s direction as he waited for the words to sink in. It took a bit for the youth to realize that this powerful psycho was gonna do a lot more of what he’d already done.

When he did realize it, the Trucker spoke again. “Tell ya what, faggot, I’ll give ya a fair chance—you make it through yer birthday taps and I’ll let ya go. Gotta tell ya, though, yer gonna hafta fight to survive, cause I’m gonna work ya over good—you faggot pigs feel so good when ya squeal and die on my dick. But, hey, if ya live, ya live, and I don’t ever go back on my word. Whaddaya say—sound like a deal?” He ended the question with a deep, throaty chuckle.

The teenager’s eyes, already circled with gray rings of shock, widened in horror. This hot, intensely masculine stud that he’d wanted so bad—the dude was gonna kill him. He was gonna beat him and kill him.

Dylan panicked. Flailing wildly, he shrugged off the waves of pain from his broken jaw and began scrambling across the thin, dirty carpet towards the door on his hand and knees. He didn’t go more than two feet before the Trucker swung out his foot. The alpha’s powerful leg kicked forward, slamming the steel-toed workboot into the punk’s flank.

The kick was violent enough to flip Dylan into the air. Smashing into the broken table, he slid to the floor, moaning in agony as the jagged ends of three broken ribs dig into his internal organs, one scraping against—but not puncturing—his lung.

Taking another drag from his Marlboro, the depraved killer stood up and walked toward where Dylan lay helpless and mewling on the floor. As the high, loosely-laced boots filled his ground-level view, the teen winced at a brief singe on his cheek where the alpha had knocked off an ash.

“That was six, asswipe. Wanna go for seven?”

The brutalized teen shuddered and wheezed; every breath cause a terrifying stabbing pain in his side. Blinking blearily up at the grinning alpha towering over him, Dylan’s misshapen jaw moved feebly as he tried to beg for release from the torment. Nothing comprehensible emerged from his mouth—and it wouldn’t have mattered it anything had.

The Trucker stooped and wrapped his large strong hands around the youth’s throat. With a deep grunt, he heaved the struggling punk into the air with a single swift motion. Dazed as he was, the injured slut began to flail frantically the moment his air was cut off, his red Nikes kicking vainly for traction a good six inches off the ground.

Holding the boy’s darkening face inches from his own, the Trucker sneered and spat. As his phlegm trickled down to mingle with the cunt’s tears, he chuckled. “Tell ya what, bitch, I won’t hit ya for number seven, huh? I won’t even kick ya—how’s that sound?”

Deep in the shadows under the brim of his trucker’s cap, a bright glint of malicious glee illuminated his eyes. “All I’ll do for seven it—this!”

He whirled and flung the well-built teen through the air with the ease of a stuffed toy. Dylan flew across the room, smashing into the desk-dresser combo with his back. The flimsy unit rocked back against the wall, breaking off the mirror. As the hard-bodied homo fell face-down on the floor, the mirror crashed down over him, peppering his smooth skin with shards of glass. Numerous small nicks and slashes were inflicted on his sweat-streaked flesh, but nothing even remotely fatal.

Dylan wasn’t getting out that easy.

The Trucker strode over and kicked the twisted wooden frame of the mirror aside. “Tell ya what, ya pansy-ass piece a’ shit, I’ll be gentle with ya—seein’ as how it’s yer birthday an’ all—and I’ll count the mirror as eight.”

With a cold, braying laugh, he bent down and snatched bleeding, gasping teen fag—one hand grasping the right ankle and the other a sweaty mass of long brown hair. From this position, the powerful alpha rose and spun, flinging the well-built meat into the wall above the bed’s headboard.

Dylan hit the wall and exhaled a loud, helpless bleat as he caved in the drywall and fell back onto the bed, bouncing onto his back with his legs spread.

The Trucker approached the bed slowly, the lower half of his face the only part visible in the dim light. Above his strong, stubble-darkened jaw, a wicked grin had crossed his face. “Of course,” he smirked, “Everything after eight’s gotta count for more, ya understand? I mean, fair’s fair, yeah?”

And with that, the hulking alpha climbed onto the bed and grabbed Dylan’s legs by the ankles. Spreading them back and apart he lowered his hairy, muscled form between them before repositioning the terrified teen’s red kicks up onto his own shoulders. Then, in a single simultaneous movement, he buried his cock so deep into the slut’s ass that his pubes scraped the boy’s smooth asscheeks—and rammed his fist into the boy’s face with an unexpected violence, breaking the meat’s nose with a thick wet crunching sound.

“Nine, cunt,” the powerful sadist chuckled, spitting into the boy’s swelling face as he ran a hand down the punk’s smooth, muscled chest, slick with panicked sweat. “Fuckin’-A, you really are a nasty pain pig, aintcha, faggot? Yer dick is hard and drippin’, motherfucker, I can feel it slappin’ against, you sick perv—goddam, this shit is really gettin’ yer rocks off, huh?”

Moaning loudly, Dylan started to flail violently. It was too much; the pain was too much. His ass was split wide open, his guts were impaled with huge throbbing manmeat, broken ribs ground in his torso with each agonizing breath—and his face, oh fuck, his face hurt so goddam bad, he had to get out, he had to get away—

Less a thinking human than a desperate, trapped animal, the well-built teen let his desperation run wild, clawing viciously at his assailant. His hooked fingers scrabbled at the Trucker’s face, but the skilled killer knew what to expect and was able to avoid the homo’s frantic, questing hands. After scraping at the alpha’s chin a couple of times, Dylan suddenly threw one arm up and caught the brim of the trucker cap, knocking it off.

The Trucker’s reaction was immediate. He wasn’t havin’ no fag meat fuck with his lid; with terrifying brutality, he slammed his balled-up fist into the boy’s face four times in a row, with the speed of a jackhammer. Each blow landed with a loud, wet smacking sound—and each one made the little shit’s body jump and jerk like an electrical shock.

The Trucker’s grin widened; each powerhouse punch had resonated through the fag’s body and tightened his ass. Each one had squeezed the sick top’s swollen shaft, massaging the dominant psycho’s pulsating hog.

His face beaten to hamburger, Dylan could only gurgle his protest, his desire to live. Even in the rising red tide of agony that had become his entire universe, he was still aware of his own straining, oozing dick, inexplicably erect despite the ongoing trauma. But he was young and he was strong—he had every intention of surviving this horrific nightmare.

“Up to thirteen now, boy,” the Trucker grinned as he relentlessly shagged the punk’s bruised and bleeding fuckhole. “Ya still with me, homo? Ain’t been fucked to death yet? Hang on, meat, we ain’t done yet!” As the hypersexual alpha pumped and grunted, sweat oozed form his broad heaving back, filling the room with pheromones and manscent.

Dylan might have actually enjoyed it had his shattered nose not filled his sinuses with blood.

The teen’s slick body bent back in distress, his arms now flailing at the thin fitted sheet as he arched his back in agony. Scrambling blindly, he managed to knock the pillows off the bed; the right one skittered across the night stand and took the clock and phone to the floor with it, accompanied by a loud crash. The lamp was hit too, but didn’t fall to the ground—instead, it fell on its side, crushing the shade.

The top of the bulb threw an unaccustomed glare across the bed, casting lurid shadows of violent mansex onto the far wall. The image was so crisp that the Trucker’s dogtags were clearly silhouetted as they dangled between the killer and his victim.

Deep within the recesses of his traumatized mind, Dylan felt a sense of betrayal at the way his body was responding to the vicious rape and beating; each pounding he took seemed to force more hot precum from his throbbing shaft. Even now, as the older man lay on him, thrusting and penetrating him for his own pleasure, the teen could feel his thick rod poking into the fur on the alpha’s firm, flat abs, sliding around on a slimy film of sweat and pre-ejaculate.

Rising up on his knees, the muscle-bound stud drew back his arm, tensed his thick, bulging bicep and drove his fist into Dylan’s smooth flat belly like a piston.

“HOOOG!!!” the fucked-up youth cried, expelling all the air in his lungs in one mighty yelp of pain. He jerked up violently, trying to double over in pain, but the moment his torso rose off the bed the Trucker hit him again, this blow impacting the boy’s broad left pec, immediately knocking him back down onto the mattress.

Gasping and struggling, Dylan popped up again—a reflexive reaction caused by the agony that the punch had caused to his snapped ribs—only to be met with another belt in the chest. Shuddering and whimpering, the brutalized teen fell back. His face, twisted and covered with tears and snot, darkened as he fought to regain his breath.

The Trucker grinned; the last three hits had done as good a job as genuine donkey punches would have in terms of tightening the meat’s anus. Grunting deeply, he hunched over the suffering teenager and rammed his enormous rod furiously into the boy’s torn and mangled colon. “Where are we now, cunt?” he hissed at the stunned and traumatized adolescent, “Sixteen? Gettin’ close, whore, gettin’ fuckin’ close. It’s time to separate the men from the boymeat, and I’m willin’ to betcha can’t take it all the way, ya cumsuckin’ fag!”

As a thin trickle of air managed to painfully work its way back down Dylan’s esophagus, he heard and comprehended—and hoped. The mauled youngster knew he was badly injured, but not fatally; if he could just get out of this room alive, he’d make it. He’d survive.

But oh fuck, those last two blows…

The Trucker could tell what was running through the little cockpig’s head. Even though his once-gorgeous face had been pummeled into hamburger, it was still easy to see the light of hope gleaming in the kid’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes. Worthless little sacks of shit, they were all the same—it was so easy to manipulate them; the stupid fucks always walked right into the trap.

The sick sadist could also see the fear. This meat knew it still had some suffering to endure. As he pumped the oozing, engorged head of his cock deep into the homo’s guts, the Trucker smirked—asswipe had no clue how much suffering was on the way.

Maybe it was time to let him know.

“Ya like gettin’ hit, dontcha, ya disgusting painpig?” the alpha stud whispered, lowering his face so close to his victim’s that his dogtags rested on the kid’s heaving chest, “Ya sure seem to like my hairy balls slappin’ at yer gay-ass fuckhole, huh? Well if ya like that, fuckmeat, yer gonna spunk with joy with this one—take it, bitch!”

This was a roundhouse punch that circled wide from the shoulder and smashed into Dylan’s face like a bomb blast, snapping facial bones and shattering the already-broken jaw. The boy went rigid with shock. “Fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Goddam, cunt, that got yer meat good and tight—let’s do that again!”

The next blow came from the other side; the experienced killer was ambidextrous. Even had the battered teen been in a positon to expect anything, he couldn’t have foreseen the fist rocketing towards him from the off side. And after the impact, he didn’t see anything at all; a mountain of glassy pain fell on him, crushing his consciousness out.

Pain. His first and most basic sensation as he came to was pain, overwhelming and all-encompassing. Every part of his body, even his somehow still-erect cock and straining cock, was flooded with agony. The second sensation was motion; combined with the searing, slashing pain in his rectum, he knew the hulking alpha was still raping him.

Opening his eyes, Dylan could see the Trucker sneering down at him. One thought kept ringing in his mind: he was alive. He’d made it through all eighteen. He was gonna be ok.

The Trucker’s dick began to pulse even faster at the sight of hope pooling in those eyes, dark puddles in a ruined face. This was his favorite part.

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled malignly, “I forgot one—what is it they call it? One to grow on?”

This blow was a rabbit-punch—swift, brutal, and intensely powerful. In the blink of an eye, the experienced killer had slammed his knuckles directly into Dylan’s larynx, instantly smashing it back into the esophagus and crushing both with a horrifyingly loud crunching sound.

“We’ll call that one to die on,” the well-built psycho whispered with malicious glee, without missing a single thrust of his cock.

Dylan’s eyes widened in terror. Throwing his arms out, he clutched at the bed first, arching his back violently upwards as he tried desperately to breathe. It was useless. His trachea had been compressed into a solid mangled mass of splintered cartilage. There was nothing he could do; his airway was completely crushed.

He was suffocating. He was gonna die.

No, that couldn’t be right. He’d promised; the dude had promised him and he’d fought, oh fuck, he’d fought so hard to live—and his birthday wasn’t supposed to turn out like this; he was supposed to be having fun and getting laid—

As blind terror set in, the realization that he actually was getting laid never crossed Dylan’s panicked mind.

Again, the well-built, writhing teen pawed at the Trucker’s face, fingers clawing with no specific object in mind, motivated by mindless anguish. The brutal top held the kid down, riding his ass as he died, feeling the boy’s smooth slick body flail underneath him.

Dylan’s flow of oxygen had already been seriously obstructed by earlier sinus damage. He didn’t have any reserves left in his lung—the onset of brain death didn’t take long.

As darkness closed in on the teen faggot, his frantic scrambling became slower and calmer; soon, his hand settled on the Trucker’s shoulders, gripping them tightly just past where his own red Nike kicks rested. At the same time, the youth’s strong, muscled body began undulating, a kind of rhythmic flow that the well-versed sadist knew to be a precursor to violent convulsions.

Now he just needed to hold on and ride the birthday boi into his grave.

As he expected, the kid began to shudder and twitch, jerking his head swiftly from side to side as bloody froth erupted from his lopsided, ruined mouth. Although it was difficult to see at first, under the swollen, bruised flesh, the punk’s face soon darkened to a noticeable point, growing ever more purple as his tongue began to protrude.

Holding his killer tightly by the shoulders, his sneakers touching his hands, Dylan convulsively pulled the alpha to him as his hips began to buck uncontrollably. Over the Trucker’s shoulders, the punk’s Jordan Horizons thrashed helplessly in the air; the left one, which had slowly come untied, suddenly flew off the boy’s foot, spinning into the far corner of the room with a clatter. The punk’s foot was left to flex, curling his toes in the white ped sock.

Knowing what was coming, the hard-bodied stud repositioned his legs, planting his unlaced workboots wide apart for better traction on the slick sheet. Grinning, he felt the little fucker’s ass start to grip his shaft as it slid over the vein-wrapped tube of manmeat with increasing speed.

“That’s it, faggot,” the testosterone-laden muscled killer muttered, “Milk my load out as you get offed. Yeah, die, motherfucker, die so I can blow my wad. Fuckin’ work the cum outta my cock with yer convulsions, ya homo asswipe. One less worthless fag in the world after tonight, but at least I get to use yer death to drain the spunk outta my hog, yeah? Fair trade, huh? Now die like the perverted subhuman cumpig you are, you fairy cunt!”

By the time he finished speaking, there wasn’t enough of Dylan left to hear him. The gay teenager who had left the bar forty-five minutes ago looking for a good time on his birthday had slid screaming in terror and agony down a dark hole that led straight to death. Technically his heart was still beating—a wildly irregular pulse—but the human spark had seeped out of the physical tissue.

The Trucker was left with a shuddering piece of meat that clutched amazingly at his swollen cock. With an inarticulate cry, the powerful alpha jerked and sent a solid spray of semen deep into the boy’s guts, hosing down his prostate and flooding his intestines.

Whether or not Dylan’s brain was too dead for him to know what had happened, his dick responded as if he did. He pressed his belly up to the Trucker’s; the latter could feel the kid’s cock suddenly swell and writhe like a garden hose on full flow. Huge wads of thick oversexed boyseed spewed from Dylan’s pulsing rod, matting the older stud’s chest hair and coating the kid’s already slick, broad chest with another layer of fluid.

The Trucker and the teen continued to hold each other tightly, locked in an erotically fatal embrace, as each kept cumming, the Trucker using the kid’s death throes to jack off—the adolescent’s dying corpse made a phenomenal sex toy. Dylan himself was unloading reflexively, an instinctive reaction to death by suffocation.

After what seemed like half an hour—but was likely no more than a tenth of that time—the Trucker pulled himself together, then pulled himself out of the dead, shuddering meat. Getting back off the bed, he let the meat’s legs flop back off his shoulders, leave the dead fag splayed out on his back, arms and legs spread.

Turning away, the alpha fished out another Marlboro, lit it, and grinding shards of glass from the broken mirror into the carpet with the thick soles of his boots, crossed into the bathroom. He needed to clean up; little homo cocksucker sure had been fulla spunk…

After wiping down with a wet towel—which his left under running water in the sink—the cruel stud leaned in the bathroom doorway and, taking another drag of his half-done smoke, surveyed his work.

The room was demolished. There was a small cheap flat-screen TV on a flimsy stand on the far side of the room; it was the only thing not damaged during the rape and murder. The AC under the window was making an odd noise; from this angle, the Trucker could see that the collapsed table had put a large dent in the front of the unit as well; likely it was impacting the fan blade.

The dead fag was the centerpiece, though, without a doubt. Dramatically highlighted by the overturned lamp, the birthday boi—who could have had a modeling career if he hadn’t been a cumsucking druggie in a small town—was now nothing but a shuddering mass of meat, his once-stunning face reduced to bleeding pulp.

The Trucker approached the corpse, still jerking and kicking in the long-drawn-out death throes associated with asphyxiation, and tossed his smoldering cigarette butt at it; the glowing ember sizzled out in the congealing puddle of semen in the center of the meat’s chest.

The slut’s right foot, still laced into its Nike hightop, kicked and jerked on the dislodged and twisted fitted sheet. The meat’s left foot had been kicking and scuffling too; in fact, it had worked the sock off, revealing the teen’s bare toes curling reflexively in death.

The condition of both the body and the room made the nightmarish violence of Dylan’s death obvious. The Trucker felt purged and relaxed. He slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on, then located his cap, halfway under the bed. Taking one last glance backwards at the teenaged homo’s still-quivering corpse, spread out and lit like a selection of prime meat on a butcher’s slab, the cruel alpha felt a sense of pride in his work.

As he headed back towards his rig, he began to whistle. Quietly, of course, so as not to attract too much attention—in fact, the thumping of his thick boot soles on the pavement nearly drowned it out—but the note of satisfaction was obvious to anyone who could hear it.

That was all it took for him to pause. He’d been scrolling through the users on a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior victims. He’d just gotten done with an assignment that had kept him working for eight days straight, and now he wanted to enjoy himself.

Lounging in an easy chair, the muscular stud could feel his cock swelling in the crotch of the faded jeans wrapped around his thick, powerful legs. It was late—about eleven-thirty in the evening. He’d eaten and showered after he’d gotten home, now he was relaxing, half-dressed and horny, looking for prey. Glancing back down at the phone, Joe read the posting.

The post was accompanied by a photo; a torso-only shot. The kid had the slim, lean body of a young teen, with fair skin and large nipples on his smooth chest. Joe threw his head back and laughed aloud. He could snap this one like twig, and this kid was making it so easy…

Joe sent a response and included a shot of his own hairy, ripped abs. He didn’t have long to wait for a reply. “Hey dude ur hot wanna fuck? I got a place.”

Joe knew the place; at least, he’d passed it on occasion. Another motel that had stopped being a viable concern decades ago when the bypass was built and was now only hanging on because there was zero demand for the property and the taxes were rock-bottom. It was the kinda place that was known for drugs and prostitution—and occasional police raids—and Joe wondered how this skinny white twink was familiar with it.

Well, he’d soon find out. He walked back to the bedroom and slipped on a black short-sleeve compression t-shirt that emphasized his broad, muscled chest. Sitting on the bed, he next pulled on a pair of brown lace-up work boots that came halfway up his calves. Standing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grunted in satisfaction at the image of hard, dangerous masculinity that he saw.

The motel was about twenty minutes away. When he got there, Joe parked his vintage Camaro out of sight behind the building. The thick soles of his boots thumped loudly on the pavement as he rounded the corner of the building and knocked briefly at the door of room 21.

The door opened and Joe found himself staring down into the face of a teenager. The kid had short straw-blond hair and a pug nose. His almond-shaped eyes were jade green and almost feline. The boy broke into a broad grin as his eyes roamed over Joe’s well-built physique, and Joe decided the kid had the most punchable mug he’d ever seen, and he had restrain the urge to follow through on it.

“Damn, motherfucker, you the dude from the app?” the kid asked, his face twisted into a leer.

Joe walked into the room. It had been remodeled sometime in the sixties and the furnishings would have been considered cool in a retro sense, if they had been in better shape. As it was, the boxy blonde-wood dresser and nightstands were scarred and pocked with burns; on the other side of the door was a small round table of more recent date, but just as badly worn. This was set with two armchairs with dark vinyl covering the padding; the vinyl had multiple tears covered with tape that didn’t quite match the shade.

In short, it was a cheap shithole. Joe closed the door behind him, slipping the chain on and turning the lock in the center of the knob when Jon turned to the side and switched on the AC unit built into the wall under the window. It came on with a grinding thrum that began to move the warm, fetid air. Glancing up at Joe’s face, Jon seemed to notice the scorn there.

“Yeah, it’s nasty, but they don’t ask no questions when I rent a room here. Other places think I’m too young, but they don’t care here.”

It wasn’t illegal to rent a room to an eighteen-year-old, but the kid did indeed look younger. Of course he could show his ID and get a room anywhere with no problem—but Joe could imagine situations where he wouldn’t want to show an ID. Like this one.

Jon provided more. “You wouldn’t believe the dudes I met here. I did a three-way with my swim coach and the assistant principal of my high school here in this room four months ago.” His smooth, faintly freckled face blushed red. Joe had finished reconnoitering the room, noting the queen bed opposite the door and the slightly ajar bathroom door on the far left wall.

Looking back now at the kid, he noticed that Jon was already completely nude, aside from a thin black strand of rawhide around his throat from which dangled a pentagram in beaten silver. The boy wasn’t scrawny, but Joe’s thigh was almost as thick as Jon’s waist. A fine gold peach fuzz covered the boy’s flat belly, thickening as it descended to a mass of golden curly pubes from which projected Jon’s enormous cock.

It was, in fact, somewhat smaller than Joe’s shaft, but in proportion to his slender form, Jon looked like he had a horse dick. And it was already swelling and stiffening as the teen faggot slut reminisced about his adventures. Shame that Mr. Adams, the assistant principal, had got caught banging that boy on the swim team and killed himself; he’d been an amazing fuck…

Joe smiled with cold contempt and began to peel off his shirt. Tossing it on the floor, he noticed that he’d gotten the punk’s attention. The kid was staring at Joe’s massive pectorals, his large dark nipples jutting above the dark, wiry fur that clustered tightly over the alpha’s chest and swept down his washboard abs.

Jon gave a faint moan as memories of past conquests were wiped from his shallow, lust-centered mind. This dude was the shit. He had to have him; he had to have him inside him…

Joe grinned evilly. It was too easy. The stupid little faggots always made it too easy.

And for that alone, if nothing else, they needed to suffer.

“Not yet, boy,” he sneered at the groveling teen homo, “Ya gotta earn this dick. Get over here and work my nips, bitch. Now!”

Jon stepped up placing his hands on the older man’s rock-hard pecs and running his fingers through the stud’s chest fur—so wiry, it felt like steel wool. The twink put his mouth on Joe’s right nipple, licking the firm mound of flesh. At the same time, his hand came up carefully gripped the other nipple between the thumb and forefinger, pinching it and twirling it.

As Jon worked Joe’s nips, the alpha stud could feel the kid’s long dick, bobbing about so that the oozing head occasionally slapped his inner thighs. “Switch sides, cunt,” he snapped, and Jon obeyed, moving over and gently taking the stud’s left nipple between his teeth.

As he did so, Joe reached down and unzipped his fly. He had to flex his knees and shift a bit to get the full, throbbing length of his huge manmeat out its tight denim confinement, but Jon followed him like a good pig, never letting the hard, erect nipple leave his mouth.

Jon felt Joe’s massive hog flop out and stood back. Looking down, he was stunned to silence; fully limp, the dude was more than six inches long. As he watched in horrified fascination, the enormous shaft began to pulse and swing as it started to get hard. He could already tell, this was much larger than any cock he’d taken in the past.

This was gonna fuckin’ hurt.

And he wanted it so fuckin’ bad.

Joe could see it all, the way lust glazed the boy’s eyes as the kid stared at his dick, the way he panted excitedly. He’d hooked his prey. Whether he reeled it in gently or violently didn’t matter; it was hooked, and it wasn’t getting away.

“Suck it,” he commanded. “Suck my fuckin’ dick, bitch.”

Jon hesitated. “I—you’ll choke me, dude…”

Joe’s grin became more shark-like. “Yeah. Now get on it, faggot.”

Opening his mouth, Jon leaned forward tentatively, but the sadistic alpha wasn’t putting up with it. The slim blond twink suddenly found his head, clamped in a vise-like grip, jerked roughly forward. His open mouth was immediately plugged with thick, throbbing cockmeat as the older stud’s mushroom head forced its way into his esophagus.

“Swallow it, cunt, take my dick all the way down,” Joe grunted as he applied pressure to the back of the teen’s head. Jon started to struggle as his air was cut off. He beat uselessly on Joe’s muscles thighs, still tightly constrained in his faded jeans. The youth’s eyes started to water as the massive vein-wrapped tube of flesh continued to sink further into his throat.

Even in his frantic airlessness, Jon couldn’t help the fuckpig thoughts from bubbling up: my god he’s so deep he’s gonna shoot a load straight into my stomach that’s so goddam hot…

But of course, after a while, the physical intervenes. Jon had been breathing through his nose for as long as he could, but when Joe’s shaft slid over his epiglottis and sealed off his lungs, he literally started to suffocate.

“Worthless faggot twink, can’t even take a real man,” Joe sneered as he partially withdrew his rod—just enough to let Jon gasp for air. Once. After a deep inhale, the kneeling teen felt his head being forced inexorably back down onto the older dude’s dick. He wasn’t ready; he hadn’t recovered enough. “HORK!” he gagged as jets of foamy drool burst out around Joe’s cock and dangled off Jon’s chin in long streams; more foam shot from the boy’s nose and dribbled down his face.

Jon was flailing frantically, his mind awash in fear. He liked a dominant older top, a daddy who would hold him down and fuck him as “punishment,” but this combination of hate-filled abuse and physical ruthlessness was unlike anything he’d ever experienced or anticipated–or hoped for…

The kid’s hands, clawing their way down Joe’s legs, hooked into the alpha’s nearly knee-high workboots, snagging on the laces. The sadist jerked his right leg back and swiftly kicked Jon, the steel toe of the boot driving directly into the teen’s flat belly. At the same time, he let go of the kid’s head.

Jon flung himself backwards with almost explosive force, ending up crouched on the floor at the foot of the bed. His slim, nubile body was heaving and glistening with sweat as he coughed and gagged, one hand around his throat while he braced himself against the bed with other.

Jon’s eyes rolled wildly, like those of a panicked horse; with a sudden effort, they focused on the door beyond his assailant. His reaction was reflexive; almost mindless—he bolted.

His lithe body, with its lean swimmer’s build, was quick, but Joe—despite being well-built—was not so muscle-bound that he couldn’t reach out and snatch the teen as he sprang forward. Clamping his hands around the boy’s upper arms, he jerked the slender twink up and held him, literally kicking in mid-air.

A familiar feeling of pleasure and power swept of Joe. The kid was slender but not skinny; there were muscles attached to his slim frame. His smooth skin stretched tautly over his pecs and delts, his biceps and thighs—and Joe could break him any time he wanted.

“Shut up!” Joe barked and spit in the kid’s face. Jon gasped in shock; he’d never been treated with such utter contempt. He’d met so many guys here—classmates, some of his friends’ dads, the Baptist youth pastor—and they had all worshipped his slim teen body. They’d fucked him, but—but this relentless coldness, this complete disregard of him as a person—this degradation to a sex object—

Jon was a shallow hormone-driven faggot slut, but he wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t know exactly what was about to happen, but he had no doubt it would be bad.

Joe was still holding the twink in the air by crushing his arms against his sides; the longer he was held there, the more Jon suffered. The powerful sadist grinned and drew his prey in closer, peering into Jon’s face. “You sure you’re eighteen? Yer ad was right, ya do look younger.”

Jon had spent several minutes suspended by his arms; he was forced to lift his entire body weight with each breath. He could only stare frantically into the icily handsome face of his attacker and gasp like a landed fish.

“Well, yer ad said ya were and that’s good enough. After all, if yer old enough to die for the government, yer old enough to die soaking up my cum. Ready, boy?”

Jon kicked out in blind terror, his bare foot making contact with Joe’s denim-wrapped inner thigh. It wasn’t as bad as if he’d racked Joe, but it was still a mistake. Joe was enraged. He raised the boy up, then slammed him straight back down onto the floor.

The cheap, thin carpet provided little padding against the concrete slab underneath. Jon hit the floor with enough force to stun him and drive the breath from his body. His lithe, slim form writhed on the scratchy synthetic carpet as he tried instinctively to breathe. Semi-conscious, his eyes rolled back as he jerked and flopped on the ground.

The quivering, moaning punk felt rather than heard the thump of Joe’s big boots on the floor; prying open one eye, he had the impression of the vicious stud standing over him, although all he could see was a ladder of bootlaces up the alpha’s leg. Then he noticed that one foot was drawing back—

The teen faggot didn’t even have time to cower before Joe kicked him brutally in the chest, the steel toe of the work boot impacting Jon’s sweaty, heaving flank and neatly snapping two ribs. The hulking sadist grinned as the boy squealed.

Then he paused and let out a grim chuckle. “And I don’t think you can pay, boy. I think yer gonna run short. And that means I’m gonna hafta take it outta yer hide.”

Jon stared up at his assailant. Joe wasn’t a bodybuilder, but his recent workouts had enlarged his muscles and gave him a powerful, masculine presence that stirred the young slut’s balls despite the pain and overwhelming fear. The twink shuddered in agony, but could still feel his cock throb treacherously, responding to the undeniable eroticism of the sculpted stud who was inflicting such shattering pain on him…

“Ha!” Joe cawed harshly. “I can see yer fuckin’ cock, homo—goddam, fag, yer already oozin’.” He bent over, leering into the teen’s pain-twisted face, knowing the kid’s dick was involuntarily erect. Happened every time. Little fucks always seemed to be surprised when he put them down; they all wanted it—they just didn’t know it until it actually happened.

“No—no…” Jon gasped weakly. He writhed feebly on the floor as the cheap, thin carpet dug into his back and the silver pentagram danced on his firm chest. His lithe, smooth body slick was with sweat. His face, pale with agony, was wide-eyed in bewildered shock; it was obvious that the assault had taken the hot teen slut completely by surprise.

He flinched, instinctively and vainly, when Joe reached for him again. The powerful alpha stooped, one-handedly grabbing the youth by his right arm and jerking him into the air.

The kid screamed as his right shoulder was twisted violently out of place, tearing tendons and ligaments. “Quiet, cunt!” Joe barked, drawing back his free arm and driving a roundhouse punch straight into Jon’s jaw. The slender blond fag grunted as his head popped back. His teeth snapped closed violently, biting through his tongue; blood trickled from his swollen, split lips.

The sadistic top caught his slightly warped reflection in the mirror above the dresser; the glass was cheap but huge, visible from most of the room—including the bed. He smirked at the image of his broad, hard body holding the twitching boymeat aloft. His legs were spread wide, the tight denim jeans highlighting his muscular thighs and his strong calves making his tall laced workboots bulge.

Standing straight out from his crotch, his enormous tool was thick and dark. It throbbed visible in time with his rapid heartbeat; each pulse forced viscous, translucent beads of precum to stand out on the hulking killer’s mushroom tip. His left bicep was swollen with the strain of holding the kid up, but there was no strain in his hard, darkly-scruffy face. In fact, the only sign of effort was the faint sheen of sweat on his broad, furry chest.

In his grasp, the smooth young boy dangled, his arm visibly twisted out of joint. The semi-conscious teen was moaning, his eyes rolled back in his head and a thin trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

And even with all that, Joe noted with cold amusement, the little homo cunt’s cock was still hard.

Jon was flying through the air before he was aware of anything more than a sudden increase in the searing pain in his shoulder. He realized that his buff, powerful attacker had hurled him at the bed; it flashed through his mind in the split second before he smashed into the headboard and vanished into a loud, painful darkness…

Joe looked down contemptuously at the blond youth’s unconscious body, face-down and twitching limply on the rumpled comforter. the kid had landed on his right arm, managing to pop it back into its socket–the torn ligaments and stretched muscles severely limiting motion.

Joe paced around the bed, admiring the teen’s smooth form; the thought of plunging his huge stiff rod into the helpless boy’s fuckhole made his piss slit dilate to allow an almost steady flow of precum to seep out.

As he moved around the bed, Joe grabbed his thick, throbbing dickmeat and slapped against his palm, sprinkling his hot manjuice over the mewling cunt’s body. Jon was slowly clawing his way back to consciousness. Once he was sure his prey was awake enough to comprehend, the cruel alpha spoke.

“Hey, faggot—back just in time to get this party started!” The cold lustful glee in his voice stung Jon’s confused, pain-wracked mind like a whip; the punk panicked, wallowing helplessly on the bed. His right arm was practically useless, nearly as bad as broken.

The terrified teen wasn’t able to actually gain any traction. His bare feet slipped on the slick polyester comforter while his left arm grabbed at the sheets, yanking them into disarray. He kicked and flailed uselessly, the icy fear that chilled his heart growing as the brutal sadist neared, slowly and deliberately.

Jon sobbed in terror, trying to understand what was happening. The thin sheets scratched at his face; the feeling was familiar. A single lucid inappropriate thought slashed through the emotional and physical shock in the teen’s mind—he’d been here, last Saturday. Here, in this room, on this bed.

He’d buried his face deep in the mattress to muffle his own moans as Danny Helms fucked him. Danny was the star of the high school wrestling team and had been since his freshman year. He was incredibly butch and usually juggled several girls at once. He also managed to come across as a serious douchebag as he publicly critiqued the skills of his various bitches.

No one knew that handling the writhing, sweaty, struggling bodies of other young men got Danny hard. He’d been fucking Jon on the DL for a couple of years. And last Saturday had been most recent—here. Right here.

Somehow, the memory of that incredible fuck with a buff FWB added to the teen fag’s confused disorientation. Whatever was happening, it had to be a dream. This couldn’t be real, not here, not for him. If he fought hard enough, he might be able to wake himself out of this nightmare—

—then a hand clamped down on his shoulder, a large hand, hard as iron, and he knew he was awake. Despite his inexplicable and downright painful erection, Jon still found himself pissing in terror. He gulped and started hyperventilating, unable to speak or cry out as he was jerked roughly down the bed.

Suddenly, before Jon realized what had happened, he found that he been maneuvered so that he was on his knees on the bed, his face down on the sheets and his ass in the air, vulnerable and exposed.

And then it wasn’t exposed any more. At first, Jon had a hallucinatory flash, an image of a billiard ball being shoved up his ass. But the alpha’s sharp hiss in his ear dispelled that notion. “Does it hurt, homo? It shouldn’t, you fucking whore—how many dudes you taken, cunt? Huh? How many? I bet you been gettin’ fucked by all kinda horny teen fucks at school, yeah? How many, faggot?”

Joe’s thighs bulged briefly as he flexed his powerful legs and drove his engorged rod all the way in, burying himself balls-deep in the teenager’s torn, penetrated fuckhole. As his wiry pubic hair abraded Jon’s smooth asscheeks like steel wool, his swollen, purple head probed deep into the kid’s intestines.

Jon screamed. He’d been fucked rough before, but he’d never endured anything like this; no one else had been anywhere this huge—and no one had been this brutal. They’d eased their way in, tenderly and lovingly; even Danny, while dominating him and pinning him to the bed, had gone in gently.

There was nothing tender or gentle about this and there sure as fuck wasn’t any love. By the same token, the room was almost foggy with male pheromones given off by their slick, sweaty bodies…

And the searing pain continued. He tried to escape; he really did. His slim but muscled legs kicked back, entangling themselves helplessly in the sheets. His left arm reached up, clawing at the headboard, but all he managed to do was dislodge the fitted sheet, revealing the stained mattress underneath.

Joe pulled out, leaving just the bulbous head of his cock still in the kid’s ass, allowing Jon’s shriek to taper off before he slammed it in again in a single brutal thrust. The writhing teen punk screeched as the massive shaft tore back up through his colon.

“Shut up, cunt!” Joe barked but Jon wasn’t able to comply; the pain was too much. Joe decided to make him obey. He grabbed a fistful of the teen’s blonde hair, and using it like a handle, forced the weeping youth’s face down into the mattress, muffling the sounds of the sobs.

In addition to the horrible agony of getting his guts reamed out by this psycho alpha’s horsedick, Jon suddenly found himself being suffocated. Even though the stud was only holding him down by gripping his hair, the dude was so strong, he was able to straight-arm the young fag’s head deep into the rough, lumpy mattress. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t turn his head, even slightly, to either side.

Joe knew exactly what he was doing. He savored the way panic made the boy’s stretched-out sphincter retighten around the base of his dick. It kept its grip as he pumped his swollen tool into the struggling faggot’s asshole.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the muscled top grunted. With one hand still forcing the teen’s face into the bedding, he ran his other hand over Jon’s trembling back, sliding smoothly along the film of sweat wrung excruciatingly from the kid’s body. “Yeah, that’s what it takes, huh? That what ya need, ya homo bitch? Ya like it when ya can’t breathe?”

Over the panicked pounding of his pulse, Jon could hear his assailant’s taunts—but he didn’t understand them. There was so much pain in his violated rectum that he was aware only of what was happening with his sphincter; the words made no sense. But the lack of logic only made the aggressive rapist’s words even more terrifying.

And even though was happened next was even worse, it took Jon a moment to realize it.

At first, his only sensation was that of relief—the hulking stud let go of his head, allowing him to raise up and gasp deeply, coughing and groaning. Simultaneously, the dude pulled out, leaving the teen homo quivering on the bed, feeling like he’d been raped with a baseball bat. Jon’s abused body went limp like a doll with its stuffing torn out—which was more or less what Jon felt like.

Then grip closed on his shoulder again. This time he was flipped, the brutal alpha spinning his body as easily as if it was a toy. The teen found his self on his back, dizzy from the violent motion. He was almost spread-eagled with his right leg sliding off the bed, the sheets still lightly wound about his right foot.

Glancing down between his parted legs, the terrified youth found his attention focused on two things.

The first was the towering form of the well-built top standing at the foot of the bed. Jon’s attention would have been dragged to Joe in any case, the latter’s hairy, sculpted torso drawing the young fag’s gaze with a gravitational attraction. The toned stud’s broad chest was heaving with exertion and slick with sweat; beads of perspiration glittered in his wiry fur.

But more than that—the dude’s cock, jutting out in front of him from the open fly of his jeans, seemed to be even larger that Jon remembered—although that could have been the pain talking; the helpless teen was still shuddering in agony from the vicious assrape. But the threat implicit in that swollen, throbbing shaft, oozing a swiftly-dripping stream of precum, had a hypnotic effect on the slender young homo.

Joe’s handsome, chiseled face was lit with lust and cruel glee as he looked at Jon’s crotch.

And that was the second thing Jon noticed—his own thick shaft, glistening and slick. It was softening but was still at least six inches above his flat, smooth belly. He vaguely wondered why he’d been hard…

Jon was right, Joe was looking at his cock. He knew the answer to Jon’s question—and he knew that Jon would be asking it.

Again, Joe grabbed his massive tool and slapped it into his other hand, splattering the fuckmeat’s firm, smooth thighs with a sprinkle of glazed manjuice. As the kid whimpered, the cruel alpha smirked and glanced at his face.

The boy’s green eyes were wide and desperate; his blond hair was matted and several shades darker with sweat. Each panicked gasp the punk took was labored; his two broken ribs had not punctured a lung but his lean swimmer’s abdomen still shuddered with pain every time his chest moved.

And then the alpha was over him. Not in him, not yet, but on the bed over him. Jon opened his eyes and saw the huge muscled form poised above him. The sudden realization of his utter helplessness washed over the teen like an ice-cold tide. No one would miss him for several hours yet; even then, no one knew where he was.

That was plenty of time for this dude to hurt him bad. And he didn’t know anything about the guy except that he was hot as fuck—and he got off on hurting Jon bad.

The blond youth stared up into his tormentor’s face, his green eyes rimmed with tears and wide with desperate appeal. “P-please, no…” he whispered in horror as Joe’s cold, hypnotic gaze held his focus. “D-d-don-don’t hurt-hurt me, m-man, please, n-no, fu-fuck no, p-please…”

“Yeah,” Joe whispered back, “Beg, you fucking fag. Beg for your worthless pig life.” Sneering, he cleared his throat and spat on Jon’s face. The boy obeyed; he instinctively knew that it was useless to resist.

He got what he wanted right away. As the slender homo twink shuddered in pain and coughed up his tooth, Joe grabbed his legs and pushed them back, all the way over until Jon’s knees were nearly touching his ears. Lean and limber as he was, Jon cried out as his body was bent double—but it was nothing to the shriek of agony the kid emitted as the alpha plunged his swollen, throbbing tool in full-length.

There was no warning. There was no preparation. Jon had been too dazed by the blow to his face to realize what having his fuckhole so exposed meant—until it was plugged, stretched beyond capacity by an enormous, pulsating tube of manmeat.

Joe grunted and planted his tightly-laced workboots far apart on the bare mattress, making sure he had enough traction for his bulging thighs to support him while he powerfucked the faggot cunt. The fuckmeat coughed and gagged as its chest was compressed into an unnatural position, but the violent ass-pounding soon forced another loud screech from it.

He spit into the teen’s swollen face; Jon felt the hot spittle slide down his bruised, aching cheek. He opened his mouth to scream again; it was reflexive, tied to the pain. What rational mind the tortured blond youth had left realized that more sound would bring more pain, but could do nothing to intervene.

Something did intervene, though. Suddenly, large, strong hands wrapped around Jon’s neck and tightened relentlessly. Jon’s large green eyes, already wide with fear, opened to an extent that was almost comical.

At least, the smirking sneer on the sadistic alpha’s face indicated he found something amusing in the situation as he slowly crushed the boy’s throat.

Jon didn’t—wouldn’t—recognize the glitter in the buff stud’s eye as the gleam of homicidal lust. He clawed at the vise-like grip at his throat as his firm, smooth body jerked and flailed beneath the muscled mass of Joe’s furry torso. His bare feet kicked the air over Joe’s shoulders as his air was cut off.

He still refused to believe he was dying. He hurt so bad—oh fuck he hurt so bad, he was being fucking impaled holy Christ it hurt so much—but his craven pig soul still clung to its youthful sense of immortality. Jon was simple incapable of conceiving of his own death.

And Joe knew it. He grinned in erotic anticipation, and knowing that seeing is believing, gave a sidelong glance at the large mirror.

He was gonna be able to show the teenage fuckmeat its own snuff.

He clenched his hands, feeling the punk’s esophagus give under the pressure. The boy grimaced and thrashed, his ruined ass sliding along Joe’s huge, vein-wrapped shaft. The buff killer didn’t even have to pump…

“That’s it, cunt. Work my dick like a good fag. An’ all it took to turn ya into a cockpig was gettin’ choked a little, huh? Guess what, ya worthless piece of homo shit, I’m just gettin’ started. I’m gonna use you like a cumrag and leave yer corpse like the garbage it is. Ya like that, boy? That get ya off? I guess it does, you sick motherfucker, yer dick is hard as a rock. Fuck, I’m gonna do the world a favor, puttin’ a pervert like you down—ain’t that right, fuckwad?”

Again, Jon heard the words but there was a disconnect from reality. His guts were being reamed out by a huge throbbing mantool; his colon was being wrecked beyond repair, but it was the grinding, squeezing pressure that circled his throat like an iron band of ever-diminishing diameter that claimed his attention.

The teen slut was slender but strong; he kicked and jerked violently in his frantic attempt to break free. He stopped trying to pry Joe’s hands from around his neck and moved higher, feeling the powerful sadist’s knotted biceps bulge as he literally wrung the kid’s neck. Jon was nowhere near strong enough to knock Joe’s arms aside; his questing hands scrabbled even further along the stud’s arm.

Joe was pumping his rod into the meat’s fuckhole swiftly, grunting with each thrust as he grinned down into the kid’s twisted, agonized face. “See, I toldja—” He was abruptly interrupted by the cunt’s fingers, clawing in his face, scratching at the bristles of dark scruff that covered Joe’s cheeks. Sheer terror had overridden pain enough for Jon to force his maimed right arm up as well, but the searing agony as torn tendons finally split and separated was nightmarish.

The dominant alpha grunted; it’d been a while since any fuckmeat had caught him off-guard. His grip loosened for a moment as the kid’s hands slipped down his hard, sweaty body and grasped at his broad torso, tearing out several strands of wiry chest hair.

Jon wasn’t really aware of what he’d done; despite the pain, his clawing had been panicked and unconscious. He was aware of the results, though—the iron band relaxed; he could breathe. Exhaling the foul air in his lungs, he inhaled deeply, sucking in lots of fresh oxygen—

—then his air was cut off again—swiftly, brutally, painfully.

Joe had withdrawn one hand, but had thrown himself forward, straight-arming his other hand directly into the punk’s larynx. He gripped the fucker’s windpipe and squeezed while resting his entire body weight on that hand.

The other hand, clenched into a fist, was pummeling the meat’s face. Joe provided commentary, accompanied by the smacking sound of flesh on flesh.

Each blow landed with the force of an industrial piledriver; Jon’s head rocked back onto the mattress, his entire body flinching as his face was beaten mercilessly and his jaw and cheekbones broken. And at no time did Joe’s pulsing shaft ever ease off Jon’s traumatized asshole; in fact, the meat reacted to each individual blow as if he’d been donkey-punched, his stretched-out sphincter contracting involuntarily—and excruciatingly.

When Joe had finally worked off his excess rage, he clamped both hands back around the meat’s neck. This time, instead of leaning over his prey, he rose up on his knees, still gripping the teen up tightly by the throat. The light was better like this; Joe could see the thin strand of black rawhide snaking out under his hand and the silver pentagram bouncing on the boy’s sweat-slick chest.

More importantly, he could see both of them in the mirror. As he kept his young victim impaled on his enormous dick, he forced the slut’s head to the side, slowly and inexorably, until the fucker could see his own reflection.

And Jon had to. Even though the lids were bruised and swollen, his eyes were still bulging too much for them to close. He literally couldn’t close his eyes.

The lean, smooth teen was forced to watch himself get raped and strangled.

Joe was hunched over the slim, lithe form; Jon’s legs were still wrapped around Joe’s neck and held by his arms. Pinned on his back by Joe’s muscular weight—and a gigantic shaft of manmeat sunk into his intestines—the young fag was helpless. Dominated and controlled, he had no choice. He had to look in the mirror.

At first, he didn’t recognize himself; that grotesque, distorted mask couldn’t be him. But as the pressure built in his chest and the painful buzzing intensified in his dying brain, he could see his eyes swelling, the green irises barely visible as hemorrhages bloomed like red poppies in the whites of his eyes.

It wasn’t true; it wasn’t happening. If he didn’t believe it, it wasn’t happening. He could fight it off. He flailed hysterically, his strong smooth arms beating at Joe’s flanks and chest as vainly as if they had been beating marble–at least one was; the other was weakly jerking and twitching in a pathetically futile attempt at self-defense. And anyway, the alpha stud’s muscled abs were impervious to what feeble force the dying teen could generate.

The kid tried to scream; all he succeeded in doing was forcing his bulging, purple tongue further out between his split and bloody lips, accompanied by a thick gagging sound. But Joe knew the words echoing in the deafening chaos of the youth’s oxygen-deprived brain.

“Scream, faggot,” he whispered—not to the struggling pansy choking in his hands, but to the mirror, using the mirror to look Jon in the eyes. “Pray to yer god, beg for yer mommy—ain’t nothin’ gonna save yer stretched-out fag ass, cunt. Yer gonna die with my cock buried in yer fuckhole, boy, and you like that, dontcha? Lookit yer dick, motherfucker, yer homo shaft is hard as steel—ha!” he laughed triumphantly. “Goddam choke pig, you fuckin’ love this shit! The harder I squeeze yer neck, the harder yer ass squeezes my hog—fuck, dude, you’re really gettin’ off on dyin’, aintcha?”

He turned back to Jon and spit in his face. The shuddering teen couldn’t feel it, but his fading vision managed to capture the glitter of the saliva as it trickled down his blackening face and mingled with the thick white foam oozing from around his dark protruding tongue. Even in his final moments of life, his shallow mind was still attracted to bright, shiny things.

Joe could tell the kid was almost gone. The boy’s arms no longer thrashed wildly against him; now, the lean youth was caressing him, the movement of his limbs, even the damaged arm, became more rhythmic as the slut’s brain died. There was no sense in making the meat watch anymore; it was likely blind by now anyway. But its sphincter was still responding, and that was the important thing.

Joe was close. He could feel the semen building in his balls; he was gonna blow soon. The speed of his thrusts increased unconsciously; he could feel the young cunt’s cock slapping moistly against his furry, ripped abs, splattering them with a continuous rain of precum. The meat was so fucking close itself…

Jon was past conscious thought; his body only responding to the random nerve stimuli caused by progressive brain death. In a final instinctive fight for life, the convulsing youth clawed at his throat again. This time, his left hand clutched at his silver pentagram unawares, jerking and snapping it free. A connected chain of electrochemical energy fired in the teenmeat’s failing grey matter; a last flash of Jon’s personality that was somehow aware of pain—crushing pain in the throat, burning pain in the chest, searing pain in the ass—and a straining, frustrating pain in the cock…

And then there was a loud crunch that ended everything. All the teen’s hopes and fears, all his suffering and pleasure, vanished in a moment as his esophagus was crushed in Joe’s powerful hands, his hyoid bone shattering in his throat as his neck collapsed in the sadistic killer’s vise-like grip.

Rutting and grunting like a bull in heat, Joe felt the teenaged faggot’s moment of death as the homo kid’s fuckhole tightened frantically at the final moment of brain death, forcing a violent spasm from the dominating alpha. The sweaty, muscular stud’s skin pumped out pheromones as his thick, pulsating rod pumped out a solid stream of cum with such force it flooded the fairy slutboy’s guts…

And Jon’s cock was still erect and throbbing, full of his deathload even after death. The end had come upon him too quickly for him to enjoy his final orgasm, but the meat still needed release. Joe obliged.

Tightening his grip even more, Joe dug his thumbs into the base of Jon’s jaws and applied pressure. His biceps swelled and his deltoids bulged as he squeezed and popped Jon’s head off the top of his spine, shattering the young faggot’s neck.

There was another loud crunching sound, different in timbre. It was the shattering of the meat’s topmost vertebra; as bone shards sliced into the the teen’s spinal column, there was another clenching of the meat’s ass—and as Joe spewed another hot load of manspunk into the homo punk’s ass, the boy’s dick finally gave way to the convulsions that wracked his entire smooth slender body. As it bucked like a bronco, the purple, pulsating shaft began to unload long ropy strands of cum that splattered onto Joe’s broad, well-defined chest and matting his fur. The meat was already dead, long past being able to enjoy his deathload, but the convulsions in his rectum milked several more hot wads out of Joe’s engorged tool…

After a while, Joe slowed to a stop and looked over into the mirror. He saw two bodies, still intertwined—his own, sweating and heaving in exertion, but slowly coming under control, and the meat’s, still impaled on his cock, quivering and trembling spasmodically. The boymeat’s death throes were slowing almost imperceptibly as Joe withdrew his cum-slathered rod from the homo’s ravaged asshole.

The kid ended up flat on his back, spread-eagled, with cum and blood leaking out his ass and a sprinkling of his own cum backsplashed across his smooth chest and flat belly. His arms were lying slightly out from his sides and his hands were balled into fists; blood leaked from the left on where cadaveric spasm had made him clutch his pentagram pendant so tightly he’d cut his skin. The cold dead hand still tightly grasped the useless decoration.

Standing over the trembling corpse, Joe sneered contemptuously down at the boymeat. Stupid little sack of shit had gotten what it deserved. He glanced around for something he could use to wipe off his dripping cock and spied a sky-blue bikini thong lying on the floor next to the bed.

What a fucking whore, he thought as he stooped to snatch it up and use it to wipe the oozing cum off his shaft. Tucking his thick tool back into his jeans, he zipped his fly and collected the compression t-shirt he’d worn on the way in. The alpha killer could feel the boycum drying to a sticky glaze in his own chest fur.

Slipping the shirt on, he took one last backward glance at the still-convulsing corpse, covered in glazed manjuice. He knew this one was young; he hoped he wouldn’t have too much trouble with it. When he left, it was nearly a quarter past one in the morning; he made sure he locked the door behind him.

The next day, though Joe was cursing himself and deciding to lay low for a bit. He needed to vet his prey better. The news was full of the disappearance of the seventeen-year-old son of a Republican state senator…

Carlos was horny and impatient, an explosive combination. Worse, it didn’t seem like he’d moved the Mustang more than thirty yards in the last fifteen minutes—he’d never seen traffic this bad. Of course, it was understandable; there was a lot to look at on the Vegas Strip.

His decision to head to Las Vegas was sudden but the desire behind it wasn’t; he’d always wanted to be in Sin City. He’d never really thought it through until last week, though. The motivation had been provided by his last snuff; he’d gotten off on the media coverage for the first few days—until the police started asking questions about a red convertible Mustang. That was too close for comfort. He got out.

It made sense, anyway. He’d knew he’d find lots of deserving fags to waste there; more importantly, he could find rich fags to waste and rob. Fuck, some dudes in Vegas could have lots of cash on them. He could be livin’ large, keeping his tight body in shape during the day, raping and snuffing worthless cumsuckers at night.

It took several days to drive across country but he had plenty of cash already. Gas, food, cheap motels—he didn’t spend much. The only other thing he wanted to spend was his sperm; rage and lust built up in him and he ended up relieving the pressure one night in a tiny fleabag in the middle of nowhere on I-44 south of Springfield, Missouri.

After that, he was able to maintain control until he got to Nevada.

But it had built up again. He needed release—now.

He’d taken I-40 all the way to Kingman, Arizona and then gone north on 93; he ended up driving into Vegas from the south, coming up the Strip past the iconic “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign. His thrill at recognizing the landmark was topped by the overwhelming awe of the glittering towers in front of him.

And then he hit the traffic. It was Saturday night. Worse than that—although Carlos had no way of knowing it—it was Fight Night. Saturday night on the Strip was always a mess; thousands of vehicles and tens of thousands of pedestrians congealing into a thick ooze. Fight Night amped it up by a factor of a hundred or more. The next light north was Tropicana; on the northeast corner, a major boxing match was taking place at the MGM Grand. Not only was traffic totally gridlocked but it seemed as if every cop in the county was out. Fight Nights were notorious for spawning violence.

It took Carlos three hours to drive three miles.

It was a warm night; even this early in the year, the temperature was hovering just under ninety degrees as it approached midnight. Naturally, Carlos had kept the top down on the Stang. Now he found himself getting a fair amount of appreciative attention from the folks on the sidewalks.

As always, he was dressed to lure; the simple leather vest that stretched across his hard tattooed pecs highlighted his muscled, inked arms. His furred chest glistened with sweat, but only slightly—it was a dry desert heat.

The boys on the street ogled and leered; they’d have been even more impressed if they could have seen him below the waist; the skin-tight black jeans he had on did nothing at all to hide the enormous bulge running down his thigh. The sadistic ex-con was already so horny that his massive hog was throbbing visibly beneath the restraining denim.

Well above the ankles, the tight jeans disappeared into the cuff of a pair of combat boots, untied and loosely laced. Carlos found that tucking the jeans into the boots made concealing and transporting his knife easier; the massive Bowie blade was hidden against his leg. To reach it, all he had to do was slip his hand inside his boot and pull up on the cuff of the jeans.

He was impatient, ready for a kill. And here he was, stuck in fuckin’ traffic.

His frustration mounted as he inched along, but he noticed a change ahead; large islands of darkness amid the intense, elaborate lighting.

The north end of the Strip was less densely populated; there were fewer open casinos. Circus Circus still squeaked along, but the Riviera across the street was closed down and fenced off, in the process of demolition. South of Circus Circus was a huge dark construction project that had been sitting idle for several years after running out of money. To the north of the Riviera was a similar property, the vast 68-story Fontainebleau Tower—also unfinished for years.

There was little to tempt pedestrians along this part of the road; traffic eased off some and allowed Carlos to change lanes. He decided to take the next right and get off the Strip for a while.

The next light turned out to be Riviera Boulevard, a short street that ran east from the Strip to Paradise Road. There were some occupied office buildings and convenience stores at the eastern end, but most of the block was dominated by the dark, deserted hulks of the Riviera on the south side and the Fontainebleau on the north.

Carlos turned the red Mustang convertible onto the side street; as the beam of the headlights swung down the dim-lit pavement, the muscled killer felt his dick stir. The street wasn’t empty; there was a boy walking away from him. The figure wasn’t clear; the kid was nearly three hundred yards ahead of him. Before Carlos could size him up properly, the dude turned a corner and vanished.

The horny ex-con sped up, finally reaching the same spot. There was a drive leading south from the street, past the rear entrance of what had been the Riviera convention center. It connected with some open parking lots for the businesses that faced Paradise and other lots associated with the defunct casino that now contained demolition equipment.

The closest lot to the convention center entrance had some cars in it; all of which seemed to be occupied. Carlos switched off his headlights, realizing he’d wandered into an impromptu cruising spot hidden behind the deserted resort. He didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself, even though he knew that the guys in the cars wouldn’t notice anything—they were otherwise engaged.

To the right was the covered portico entrance for the convention center; Carlos could make out the slim figure of his prey sauntering in the dark driveway. Wasting no time, the sadistic killer turned in and pulled up to the kid.

The boy approached the car with the feigned nonchalance and suppressed eagerness of an experience whore. He was young, too, no more than nineteen; it was clear he’d gotten an early start at renting his firm, lithe body out. He wasn’t dressed colorfully or flamboyantly but his tight, worn clothes emphasized his slender but muscled form. His tawny hair was long, almost shoulder length, not entirely straight but by no means curly. In the front, the sandy blond bangs were spiked exuberantly over brown eyes, large and deceivingly soulful.

Carlos already knew the little cunt didn’t have a soul. The rentboy was just meat.

But he was sexy meat. His chest, broad without being overly developed, was covered with a film of sweat that rendered the skin-tight thin cotton of his white wifebeater nearly transparent. Around the boy’s throat there glittered a long chain made up of heavy gold links. Carlos doubted the fucker bought it for himself (he was right on that; the boywhore had stolen it from a trick earlier that night)—and he damn sure wasn’t gonna need by the end of the night.

Below the cunt’s flat firm belly and narrow waist, seductively wrapped with a black belt with large metal studs, a pair of faded skinny jeans clung to his hips; tears in the denim showed the smooth pale flesh underneath. Under the ragged cuffs, the boy had on a pair of simple while leather Adidas hightops.

As the kid leaned over the car door, his face was dimly lit by one of the parking lot lights further to the east that was still working; Carlos could see faint glitters of gold hair in the barely-visible goatee around the teen’s mouth. The kid grinned impishly and batted his long lashes. “Whassup, man?” he drawled, letting his eyes caress the older man’s brawny form. “Ya lookin’ for some fun?”

With an easy grin on his own face, Carlos replied. “Yeah, dude, I gotta load I need to blow. How much to help me out?”

The boy stood up, thrusting his shoulders back and his chest out. It was a purely involuntary reaction—the whore was utterly unaware of the way he was presenting the flesh on sale. “Man, I don’t get less than fifty an hour—but you can do what ya want with me in that hour. Fair enough?”

Carlos paused for a moment as if considering the financial aspect. “Sure—hop in.” He’d drag the kid out somewhere, rape, snuff and rob him, and use any cash the kid had to get a cheap room. All he had left now were Franklins and he’d be sure to be remembered if he flashed one at the desk clerk in the kinda place he was looking for. Cheap and sleazy was cheap and sleazy, even in Vegas—especially in Vegas—and his plan was to lie low for a few days to take stock of the situation.

The boy obeyed Carlos’s instruction literally, hopping over the door and into the passenger seat. He was slightly shorter than Carlos was, probably about five feet ten. He seemed to weigh about a hundred and fifty pounds; not scrawny by any means but slender when compared to Carlos’s powerful mass of toned muscle.

The young punk buckled himself in as the alpha pulled out of the lot and turned left, the way he’d come in. As he got closer to the Strip, his hand crept down towards his boot, feeling its way down towards the knife.

“Hey, man, you gotta place yet? No? Turn right up here. I live a few blocks up; you can park behind my building. It’s dark back there; no one can see us in here if you put up the top.”

Carlos’s hand froze and withdrew. “You got a place close? I need a place tonight. How about this—I’ll pay ya two hundred for the night. I’ll leave by dawn. And it’s already past midnight.”

The rentboy jumped on the offer—fifty an hour was wishful thinking for him; two hundred for the night was more than he could have hoped for. It not only paid the weekly rent (due on Monday), it left him enough to get good and high Sunday. He’d let this stud bend him over and breed him, if that’s what the hot buff Hercules wanted; he found himself getting excited at the thought.

“Fuck yeah, man,” the teen slut moaned, “for that kinda money, you can do what ya want all night long. Turn left at the next light—there, in front of the Stratosphere…”

Carlos relaxed—all of him but his cock. This was perfect; the little faggot had his own place nearby. He’d let the little cockpig lead him back into his own killing pit. He made the left onto Sahara as directed and soon found himself in what looked like a war zone wedged between the Strip and the highway.

In the shadow of the massive Stratosphere Tower lurked an intensely squalid neighborhood; a small grid of streets (all named after cities) that had once been major thoroughfares before Las Vegas Boulevard developed on the east side and I-15 put through on the west. The tiny roadside motels had been cut off from traffic decades ago; even before the massive resorts went up, these places had folded into rent-by-the-week efficiency apartments.

“There,” the whore said, pointing down a dark street due east of the casino. Only a single block long, it ended at a cinderblock wall, tagged with gang signs, blocking access to Industrial Boulevard to the west. One side was a group of squat square buildings, surrounded by an iron fence. Clearly a former motel, each small square structure housed four rooms per floor, each with a single rectangular window (also covered with iron bars), underneath which was an AC built into the wall.

A gap in the fence led Carlos to an open lot behind the buildings. He pulled to the far end of the space, up against the fence that evidently circled the entire property; beyond was a disused, crumbling alleyway and another graffiti-tagged wall. The alpha glanced around, taking in the dismal sight.

“C’mon, dude,” the teen piped up, “I’m right over there, number 208. Name’s Shaun, by the way.” Releasing the seatbelt, he tensed his lithe young muscles and popped up out of the seat and over the car door, just as he’d jumped in; he seemed to take a childish, almost innocent pleasure in it.

He paused, waiting for Carlos to follow. “By the way…” Here the young punk stopped, as if embarrassed. But the thought of two hundred bucks overcame any delicacy the reamed-out slut possessed. “I can get kinda loud. But it’s ok, most of the neighbors are out nights like me. And it ain’t like anyone round here hasn’t heard me get plowed anyways.”

Carlos got out of the car with a wolfish grin, his rubber-soled combat boots silently hitting the pavement. As he stepped to the front of the car, a flickering security light intermittently lit his strong, well-developed body. For the first time, Shaun got a full-body glimpse of the masculine alpha. He gasped aloud at the huge throbbing ridge plainly visible through the black denim, running down the stud’s leg.

“F-fuck, man,” the teenaged rentboy gulped, “I, uh—I…I get the money, whatever happens, right? I-I mean, even if I can’t take it?” The pleading look in his face was as erotic as the whining, begging tone in his voice was annoying.

“Hell yeah, cunt,” Carlos said in a low, guttural tone as he chuckled grimly. “I promise ya, no matter what happens, you’ll get paid. Maybe even more than you deserve. I’m generous that way.”

Resuming his cockiness, Shaun smiled and brushed his blond bangs from his forehead. “Cool. C’mon, stud, I’m up here.” He turned and headed toward the closest building to the left, his Adidas hightops slapping on the broiling pavement. Carlos followed the lean, lithe youth up the stairs to the covered exterior walkway. Two doors opened out onto it; Shaun stopped at the first. A sheet of paper, pinned to the door, fluttered in the wind. The boy snatched at it, muttering something about a rent notice.

“The dude next door is out turnin’ tricks,” the rentboy said in a confidential tone as he jabbed his key questioningly into the dark doorway; the entire complex was sunk in an almost Stygian blackness. “Lucky bitch got himself hooked up with a gay bachelor party—he’s gonna be gettin’ banged all night.”

Carlos was barely able to suppress a contemptuous snort. “You make a lot of noise, boy? Are ya a screamer?”

Even in deep shadow, the sadistic alpha caught the blush on the teen whore’s face. “Well—not usually,” the kid admitted sheepishly, “but I ain’t sure I can take yer hog without yellin’. The unit that backs on to me is empty, though, and the one downstairs is too damaged to rent. So it’s ok, dude, I can make as much noise as I want and ain’t no one gonna hear.”

“That’s good, punk, that’s real good,” Carlos said with a leer, “cause yer damn sure gonna be squealin’ by the time I’m done with ya.”

The young boywhore giggled, the sound of a horny teenage faggot about to get laid. Carlos’s grin widened into a shark-like leer as Shaun got the door open. The hard buff killer slipped into the room behind his prey, locking the door behind him as the slut switched on the light.

The room, unsurprisingly, was small and dim. It had been a decent motel room at one point, but that point was half a century ago. The conversion to an efficiency apartment had been piecemeal and clumsy. The bathroom had the tub and toilet only; the sink had been built into a vanity in the bedroom proper. This had been expanded to include a two-burner electric stove, a mini-fridge and a microwave. There was no oven. The closest thing to a dining space was a tiny bistro table onto which the teen cunt tossed the rent warning.

There was window next to the door that looked out over the balcony/walkway, and a small window across from the bed with the AC in the wall underneath. Shaun crossed to it and turned it on. Starting with an asthmatic wheeze, it pushed the air around with a loud grinding noise but did little to cool the almost uncomfortably warm room; the place must have been literal hell in high summer.

The sheets on the double bed were twisted and wadded; the only part of the nightstand that wasn’t covered with beer bottles and soda cans was reserved for an overflowing ashtray. The closet was beyond the bed; it was jammed so full of dirty clothes that the door couldn’t be closed.

Shaun noticed Carlos looking at the closet and blushed with embarrassment. “Yeah,” he admitted shamefacedly, “I know, but it’s kinda hard to get to a laundromat without a car.”

The vicious, sadistic killer smiled at his prey in a gentle, reassuring manner. “If ya work my cock good enough tonight, I’ll make sure that that ain’t a problem for ya anymore.”

Shaun’s eyes lit up; his adolescent body stiffened with an influx of hormones and greed. A hot stud who could take care of him financially and fuck the living shit out him at the same time—

The slim but firm teen exhaled, shuddering in ecstasy. “F-fuck, man, you can do what ya wanna to me…you can hurt me if ya wanna, as long as ya take care of me…”

Carlos’s handsome, hard face twisted with a sneer of contempt; the stupid fuck was makin’ it too easy. “Shit, boy, I can take care of ya. I’ll take care of ya good. Tonight. Now get yer faggot ass over here.”

Shaun approached the hulking killer like an eager puppy; if he’d had a tail, he’d have been wagging it. He moaned erotically as he felt Carlos’s large strong hands fondling his firm body; he gasped as the powerful alpha gripped the punk’s collar and, with a single jerk of his muscled arms, ripped it open, shredding the thin white cotton.

Shaun stood in front of Carlos with his chest bare, the smooth skin tautly clinging to the pecs and biceps on his slender build only marked with a faint peach-skin fuzz on his flat belly; it clustered around his navel. The young whore looked up into the eyes of the man who was about to rape and murder him, reading the hot flame of homicidal lust as the feeble glow of mere desire.

Silently, the buff older man bent down and hooked his fingers in a tear in Shaun’s skinny jeans, a frayed rip in the faded, skin-tight denim, high up on the thigh. With a rough jerk, Carlos tore the material clean through, shredding the jean leg and baring the teenager’s smooth thigh and calf down to the white athletic sock that peeped out above the white Adidas hightop. Another brutal yank, slightly lower down, revealed the other leg.

Shaun seemed somewhat stunned at the way he’d been abruptly and violently stripped; all that was left to him was his shoes and what now looked like ineptly-made jean shorts, held up by his thick, metal-studded belt. But the horny youth took the hint and slipped out of the remains of his pants.

Standing nude, wearing just his hightops and his thick gold chain in front of the burly ex-con, the teen whore’s cock jutted stiffly in front of him. Just over six inches of throbbing boymeat, what it lacked in girth was compensated for by the huge mushroom-shaped head, pulsing and oozing clear precum. It sprang proudly—almost arrogantly—from a tangled mass of sandy-blond curls.

The young slut peered up impishly at the muscular man who was planning on murdering him. “So,” he chirped winsomely, “whaddaya think—ya like?”

Carlos maintained his silence for a little longer. Staring coldly down at the punk, he shrugged his broad shoulders, dislodging the leather vest and letting it slip off. Even though Shaun had a good idea of Carlos’s physique, tattoos, and massive furry chest, he still gasped at the reveal of the killer’s hubcap pecs, crawling with ink.

The sadistic top grinned and reached down to his crotch. Grasping hold of the zipper, he lowered it slowly, almost like a stripper. And after all, he did have the complete attention of the kid, breathless and sweating in anticipation.

Once he got the zipper down…nothing happened. He had to reach in to grab ahold of his enormous tubesteak; luckily it was only semi-hard, since he had to bend it nearly double to get it out. Once it was out, it dangled between the alpha’s legs, jerking and dripping.

Shaun paled. Even soft, it was more than eight inches long and two in diameter. That wasn’t a human cock, that was a horse dick. A cold chill washed over his body; his own shaft wilted slightly. “Man, th-that—“ he stuttered, trying to formulate his concern, “I-I ain’t g-gonna be a-able to take that…”

The hard-bodied top’s stinging words struck the boywhore like a blow; his face flushing pleasurably, he obeyed instantly, dropping to his knees. He turned his face up to his dominant trick, his trepidation belied by the erotic anticipation in his puppydog-like eyes. Crouching on the floor, the teen moved one hand to his groin; as Carlos stepped up to him, Shaun started jerking his cock.

The boy opened his mouth and Carlos didn’t bother to give him a chance to speak. Lunging forward, he shoved his engorged tool down Shaun’s throat with a single, swift plunge.

The teenage cocksucker had already given two other BJs earlier in the evening—one of whom was the dude from whom he’d stolen the gold chain—but he still wasn’t prepared for the huge onslaught of manmeat that plugged his esophagus and cut off his air.

The punk stopped playing with his dick, his hands flailing momentarily in the air before he groped blindly at Carlos’s legs. Pawing at them, Shaun placed his palms flat on the alpha’s thick, muscular thighs and tried to push away; he was coughing and gagging but unable to draw his breath. In his frantic fear, he tried harder to push Carlos away, forcing him out of his mouth, but it was like trying to topple Stonehenge with his bare hands.

Carlos’s hands clamped his head in a vise grip, strong fingers tangled in the boycunt’s long blond hair, which left him unable to pull back and free himself. Tears flowed from his large, dark eyes as his hands fumbled down the aggressive top’s legs. At one point, Shaun was gripping Carlos’s combat boots tightly, unconsciously. As his questing hands searched futilely for a vulnerable spot, the gagging, cock-stuffed teenager felt a long hard shaft running up the stud’s leg from his boot.

He was too focused on trying to breathe to wonder what it was. Later, when he found out what it was, he wasn’t in a position to appreciate the irony.

At the moment, he could only appreciate Carlos’s huge, pulsing hog, mainly because it was choking him to death. He was aware of the hard stud’s curses and mutterings as he hunched over and brutally skullfucked the nineteen-year-old fag. “Take it, ya fuckin’ cunt,” the tattooed ex-con grunted as he reamed Shaun’s mouth, “ya want my load? Huh? Ya ready for my hot wad?”

Shaun could only squeak and beat his hands aimlessly against his assailant’s immovable thighs, but he had years of experience as a cumsucker and felt some relief as he recognized the symptoms of impending orgasm. Carlos’s breathing quickened along with the tempo and depths of his thrusts into Shaun’s darkening, swelling face. Then the thick, vein-wrapped shaft pulsed violently; as the buff sadist grunted and clamped down excruciatingly on the punk’s head, Shaun could feel on his tongue the cum channel that ran along the underside of Carlos’s cock as it started to swell and pump.

And then, a burning, boiling heat. “Fuck!” Carlos snarled, “Fuck! Goddam! Fuckin’ homo cunt!” He clamped down on Shaun’s head as the blond boy found his mouth full of hot smoky seed, a steady stream that forced him to gulp it down—and even so, it overflowed from his mouth and ran down his face, dangling off his chin in long, ropy strands.

Carlos stepped back, his phenomenal rod still completely hard and oozing a pearly thread. He chuckled contemptuously as Shaun, on the floor on all fours, heaved and coughed, struggling to breathe as he vomited up the older man’s sperm. After several minutes the boywhore finally regained enough control to speak. “D-dude…” he gasped, his voice ragged and pleading, “I-I earn-earned my money, r-right? Huh? P-please? Yer h-h-hot as fu-fuck, man, but I…I can’t take any more…”

Shaun looked up at the top, his weary, well-used face already glazed with manseed. He’d bitten off more than he could chew, so to speak, and he knew it.

“Get on the bed, boy. On yer back with yer legs in the air like the useless goddam whore you are. Do it. NOW!”

The young slut had no choice but to implicitly obey the ring of command in the ex-con’s voice. He was afraid; this was gonna hurt and this dude didn’t have any boundaries.

But he wasn’t afraid enough.

Shaun did was he was told, easing himself back onto the double bed, sweeping one arm behind him to shove the wadded mass of blanket, top sheet and pillows to the floor. He lay full-length on the mattress, bare but for the fitted sheet, and raised his legs in the air. An experienced professional, the teen whore reached down hooked his hands up under his knees to full spread his legs and allow plenty of access to his fuckhole.

Carlos stood, smirking, at the foot of the bed, looking at the slut like he was appraising a piece of meat—which was more or less exactly what he was doing. The rentboy’s shoes hung in mid-air; below, his firm smooth legs were splayed, forming a V that pointed directly at the youth’s pink quivering asshole. Between them, the kid’s long swollen cock pointed straight towards his flat belly, beyond which, taut, smooth skin rose and fell over the teen’s pectoral muscles. The boy’s nipples were sharp and erect.

Carlos towered over him, his inked body shiny and glistening with sweat in the warm room. The menace of the killer’s hardened body was accented by his cold face and closely-shaven head—and, of course, the massive, erect, dripping horse dick jutting out from the open fly of his tight jeans.

Shaun had been taking dick up his ass for years; he’d fled a sexually abusive stepfather in his early teens and headed to Vegas. At one point he’d actually managed to get a part as a dancer in a show in a cheap off-Strip casino by lying about his age—not that anyone had really cared—but his drug use and general whorishness ensured it didn’t last long. Ultimately, he’d been selling his body to survive for at least three years.

And even so, he’d never seen a cock that huge. He loved to deepthroat, but he hadn’t been able to get more than a third of that enormous hog down his throat without damn near passing out. His sphincter had been stretched and strained, but he was still afraid that this dude was gonna be more than he could take. Part of him wanted to beg and back out, just tell the dude to go, no harm, no foul, just go…

Part of him, though needed the money. It was Saturday—well, Sunday morning now—and rent was due Monday. He’d pawn the gold necklace he’d swiped, of course, but combined with what this dude was offering, he’d have enough to pay the rent and still spend the rest of the week cranked out of his skull. And meth killed his appetite, so he didn’t need to worry about buying food…

Plus, the older stud was so fucking hot. Yeah, it was gonna hurt, but Shaun felt a certain pride in knowing he was gonna take this incredibly sexy gangbanger’s shaft.

Lust and greed won out. The stupid young whore, despite his experience, disregarded the red flags. He pulled back his knees, spreading his legs, offering his tender, vulnerable rosebud up to the murderous parolee. Knowing that he was about to endure intense pain, Shaun braced himself, consoling his fears with the thought that it’d be worth it in the end (and not recognizing his own pun).

“C’mon and stick it in me, stud,” he muttered through gritted teeth. It was the last specifically conscious action he took for the next few minutes. Carlos pounced on him so swiftly that his preparations were derailed; before he could so much as gasp, the tattooed, hulking ex-con had placed his huge mushroom tip against the kid’s ass. Shaun felt the pressure—and then his world exploded in agony.

It was far worse than he’d imagined.

He was being torn inside; he could feel it. It had happened before—the pain was like getting raped with a razor blade. Last time, he’d ended up shitting blood for a month and a half. And this was much worse.

The thoughts passed through his mind in a split-second of lucidity; the pain itself hit him with force of an industrial piston. So did Carlos’s dick. Even before his mind processed the agony he was experiencing, his lean teenaged body erupted in a fury of self-preservation. Scrabbling at the alpha’s hard body like a feral cat, Shaun found his hand slipping uselessly over the top’s sweat-lubed skin. His legs, forcibly kept apart by Carlos’s mass between them, jerked in the air, the white leather Adidas kicks bobbing uselessly.

It had all happened so quickly that the young slut hadn’t had the chance to scream yet; as soon as his brain recovered from the initial shock, he shrieked—an ear-splitting falsetto that triggered an innate rage response in the ex-con.

“Shut the fuck up, you worthless cocksucker,” the powerful killer roared, backhanding Shaun across the face hard enough to split his upper lip. “What kinda homo whore are ya, you stupid motherfucker? I thought ya liked gettin’ fucked in the ass, queerboy; ya get paid for it, right? So shut yer cumhole and take my goddam cock!” Spitting angrily into the kid’s befuddled, pain-wracked face, he reared back and bitchslapped the teenaged rentboy again.

A light came on inside Shaun’s head—a dim one, to be sure, insufficient to light the vast empty space around it, but nonetheless he did have enough brightness to realize that he’d asked for far too little money for what was gonna happen tonight. But that was as far as he could go with the implications—the hot dude liked to hit; he was just getting his freak on. As soon as Shaun could get this fucker off of him—and out of him—he’d demand more cash. But that was easier said than done; the dude was huge, and strong, and Shaun’s efforts to free himself were completely futile.

Carlos was tired of wrestling with the little punk, though. The stupid sack of shit kept trying to pull himself up off Carlos’s throbbing dick. Enough was enough; the sadist’s hot Latino blood was boiling over in rage and lust. It was time to make some meat.

Carlos had laid himself flat on the boy, full-length, keeping one hand free to fend of the kid’s frantic flailing while he humped his inhumanly long rod up the wailing teen’s ass. He slowly dropped the other hand down his side until he could reach the cuff of his jeans. Pulling it up, he was able to grasp the hilt of his combat knife and slip it up out of the boot sheath.

Shaun never saw it coming. He was too busy struggling, trying to break free from the iron grasp of intense pain that clamped him to the bed—and too busy trying to think of the terms he’d negotiate to accept the pain.

That was when everything changed. That was when he saw the knife.

At first, for a single moment, the whored-out youth that it was joke, a novelty item, a movie prop. It was just too big to be real. Then Carlos, smiling faintly, laid it on his chest, and Shaun could feel the cold steel edge resting against his flesh.

His tender, exposed vulnerable flesh. This was no joke. The knife was real.

Shaun was silent, staring at the hard, inked face of a killer—the word “Revenge” across his neck—mere inches from his own. He knew it now; this hot stud whose massive dick was even now shoved into his guts, was a stone cold killer. He’d heard about dudes like this, dudes who got off on hurting—or killing—other dudes. As a rentboy, it was something of an occupational hazard, but it was more legend than reality. Things like that didn’t happen, and the certainly didn’t happen to Shaun.

Except it was happening now.

“Guess ya won’t be needing this; I can use it,” Carlos chuckled. The young slut winced as the powerful alpha reached out, but Carlos was only grabbing the gold chain. A swift yank and it parted at the clasp, twisting it slightly. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. He tossed it to the floor; he’d pawn it tomorrow. Right now, it was time to make some meat.

Carlos sneered, spitting into the horrified kid’s face. He picked up the knife and silently began running it down Shaun’s lean, heaving torso. He kept the cutting edge on the skin, applying just enough pressure to break the surface. It didn’t even hurt, but the scratches bled slightly, the red ooze mixing with the sweat forced from the boy’s pores by physical and mental distress.

For Shaun, though, it was the beginning of the end. He could feel the blade and he lost it. Carlos felt a warm splash across his furry belly. Looking down, he realized that the terrified teen had pissed on him—the kid had lost control of his bladder. At the same time, the punk’s panicked mewlings reached their maximum annoyance level. “Oh god oh fuck don’t please don’t you can take my money the chain whatever you want please don’t kill me please no oh god please fucking don’t oh shit oh please…” the helpless boycunt babbled mindlessly, hoping somehow to appease his assailant.

It took no more than a second for the full foot of sharpened carbon steel to penetrate all the way into the young kid’s strong but lean body. That can seem like a long time when it’s your body getting penetrated.

For Shaun, it took forever. The blade tore through his intestines and impaled both his liver and his spleen. He went rigid instantly, his lithe form clenched tight in excruciating pain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the tortured youth noted the grunt of pleasure from Carlos as his sphincter involuntarily tightened on his killer’s cock. Wracked with agonizing shudders, Shaun inhaled deeply; he had no control over the scream that was about to erupt from his lips.

Carlos did, though. He clamped his huge, strong hand across the helpless slut’s mouth, sealing off his cries and reducing his nightmarish screams to muffled grunts and moans.

From experience, the sadistic alpha knew he had to shut down the meat’s ability to cry out, and this time, he was grateful for his knowledge of torture and murder almost immediately. As Carlos lay on top of the trembling boycunt, he yanked the knife back out, placing it back on Shaun’s chest so the dying fag could admire his own blood. He’d taken care to avoid major blood vessels—by now, he was damn near an expert on anatomy; who says ya can’t learn anything useful in prison?—and while the teenaged rentboy had suffered a serious injury that would eventually cause him to bleed out, his death was not imminent.

Carlos was just settling in to enjoy his prey a little more when the sound of footsteps reverberated on the outside staircase. The apartment was so old, the whole place shook with the footfalls, which became more intense as they rose higher on the stairs.

Carlos already knew—it was the next-door neighbor returning. So did Shaun; Carlos could tell just by the look in the youth’s eyes. The way a light of hope sparked deep within them, the way they broke their fearful stare at Carlos’s face to turn with anticipation towards the door past which the unknown manwhore would momentarily pass, these showed Carlos that Shaun had not yet accepted his fate.

The boy’s muffled grunts and groans increased in both intensity and volume; he was frantically trying to attract the attention of his neighbor. The guy was passing right in front of the door; as Carlos struggled to keep his dick up Shaun’s ass and his hand over his mouth simultaneously, he could feel the flimsy floor of the unit bobbing up and down in time to the footsteps along the walkway outside. This place really was a shitty little dive.

Perfect place for this whore to die. Carlos was tired of fighting him. Time to make sure he couldn’t call for help, no matter what. The husky stud drew himself upright, his powerful, chiseled form silhouetted the grim light of the single nightstand lamp . His strong right arm, bulging with muscles and writhing with tattoos, brandished the blood-streaked Bowie knife.

From the corner of his eyes, Shaun could see the viciously serrated blade hovering in the air. Danny was home next door; if he could scream now, Danny would call the cops, they could save him, he’d be ok…

Then then blade slashed forward, moving with the speed of lightning. Shaun tried to scream, but his throat was blocked.

With steel.

Carlos had slammed the blade into the side of Shaun’s throat. Without striking a single major blood vessel, he’d expertly speared the unfortunate teen’s larynx, slashing the vocal cords as the sharp serrated blade gutted the bitch’s voicebox, leaving him coughing and gagging in unimaginable pain, made even more intense by the fact that it was utterly mute.

Shaun could gasp and wheeze, gurgle and moan, but he couldn’t cry for help. He was gonna die mere inches away from his oblivious neighbor, helpless and alone with a cruel killer.

Whatever sins he might have committed, he atoned for them in a protracted welter of pain, blood and sex. The last few minutes of his life were a literal living hell, and they dragged out nightmarishly; for all the agony Shaun was in, none of his wounds were immediately fatal.

Left as he was, he’d bleed out eventually, but it’d take time. Carlos, though, had no intention of leaving the thrashing rentboy as he was. He drove his swollen shaft brutally up the punk’s ass, his powerful, heaving body pinning the terror-filled teen to his own bed. Glaring down into the slut’s twisted, tear-stained face, he spat on the cunt and snarled, “I told ya you’d have to work to get a second load outta me, you stupid homo fuckwad—you ain’t doin’ it for me, bitch! Only time I can get yer worn-out fuckhole tight enough around my hog is when I’m stickin’ ya; guess ya like it, huh? That what gets ya off, you disgusting pervert, gettin’ reamed with a long, hard shaft? Fuckin’-A, cumsucker, why didn’t ya say so? Saddle up, faggot, cause I’m gonna stick ya lots more—yer gonna love this shit!”

The anguished youth gurgled desperately, his mouth full of the nauseating coppery taste of his own blood. He could hear and understand the words being spoken but had no capacity for further reaction. His entire existence was full of pain and cock. Even in the deepest pit of panic, Shaun was aware of Carlos’s angry, pulsing shaft impaling his guts; the searing, stabbing pain in his rectum was every bit as intense as that in his side, or his throat.

The tortured boywhore barely noticed the sensation when Carlos ran the tip of his combat knife down the center of the kid’s chest, the razor-sharp point barely scratching the surface of the boy’s silky-smooth skin. He stopped at a point several inches below the sternum.

Glancing down at the teenaged hustler, Carlos sneered, then slowly began shove the blade into Shaun’s flat, quivering belly. He counted it out allowing ten seconds to penetrate a quarter-inch into the kid’s writhing body.

As the length of sharp steel was being inserted into his guts, Shaun screamed—or would have, if he’d been able. His head was thrown back, eyes almost impossibly wide and ringed with black circles of shock. His face distorted in agony, the boywhore’s mouth was stretched wide to scream but the only sound that came out was a grotesque wheezing noise.

The ex-con was an experienced fag-killer by now; he knew that when the resistance to the blade lessened that he’d hit a void—he’d shoved the knife in far enough to penetrate the stomach. “Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered gleefully at the shuddering boymeat wallowing beneath him, “I’m fuckin’ yer guts good now, cunt, and damn if it ain’t got yer ass all nice and tight.”

Tensing the bulging bicep in his killing arm, Carlos drove the knife in even deeper. Slicing through Shaun’s firm, slender abdomen with a loud squelching noise, the twelve-inch steel blade tore through the thrashing, gurgling youth’s back and into the mattress beneath.

The teen rentboy was now pinned to the bed with a Bowie knife through his gut and a killer’s cock up his ass. His smooth white body was marked by blood flowing from his wounds, but most of the bleeding was internal. The exception was his face; his futile gasping had caused an occasional bubble of blood to form on his lips; they’d spattered his cheeks when they burst, streaking the pale blond hairs on his cheeks.

Shaun was no longer capable of rational thought; his entire awareness was focused on physical sensation, on the tsunami of torture being inflicted on his body. The violent assfuck he was enduring made his slim form buck and jerk on the bed—but the knife was stuck in the mattress; it remained still.

It was sawing him open from the inside.

The worst thing of all was that, above the terrible agony of brutal buttrape and repeated stabbings, Shaun could also feel his own erection. And somehow, that seemed to hurt more than anything else…

Carlos could see that the whore was almost meat. “Fuck yeah,” he whispered, more to himself, since he was damn well aware the cunt was no longer lucid. “Die, you goddam faggot piece of shit…motherfucking cumpig…”

With a single vicious jerk, Carlos yanked his knife up out of Shaun’s belly. The writhing punk gasped as the razor-sharp steel slashed up out of him. He didn’t have time to exhale before the buff, aggressive sadist slammed the blade back down into his chest.

It was the death blow. But it wasn’t clean; the knife hit a rib on the way in, shattering it. Bone fragments exploded like shrapnel, riddling the unfortunate youth’s viscera as the blade itself penetrated the heart, puncturing it like a large, wet, pulsing balloon. Even then, it didn’t stop, slashing its way through the torso, emerging below the clavicle—and, again, pinning the kid to the bed.

Shaun stiffened, every muscle in his body going rigid with trauma-induced shock. His torn, bleeding sphincter closed down on the thick root of Carlos’s dick like a cockring. At the same time, the hormone-swamped teen’s shaft snapped to attention, smacking against his killer’s muscle-rippled belly.

Instantly, the rentboy began convulsing—and so did his dick. It swelled and pulsed visibly as it shot a solid stream of semen in an intense, steady jet. While the teenager slutboy’s heart ruptured and flayed itself to hamburger against the blade that impaled it, his dying body expelled a desperate geyser of genetic material, a final, reflexive, useless attempt at self-preservation.

It was the full-body convulsions, though, that milked the cum out of Carlos’s tool. He held on to the flailing, kicking teen as the boy died, letting the cunt’s violent death throes jack him off. The powerful alpha grunted in pleasure, then roared out curses as he pumped multiple hot wads of spunk into the bitchboy’s mangled intestines.

At some point, Carlos regained control of himself. He was heaving and shuddering, his engorged rod still buried deep in the ass of Shaun’s corpse. Sweating and gasping, he remained there for a few minutes, feeling spasms still flowing down his shaft, forcing the last few drops of seed out of him.

He pulled out, his massive hog bobbing up once it was free of the dead boy’s fuckhole. The fag whore was still quivering and trembling, pinned to the bed like an insect. Grinning with pleasure, Carlos leaned forward and jerked his knife out of the meat. The youth’s mangled corpse convulsed violently as the blade was withdrawn, the white leather Adidas kicks tearing and scuffling at the sheets, before one last violent spasm squeezed a teaspoon of semen out of the meat’s semi-erect dick. Then it went still.

The hard-bodied ex-con stood triumphant over his victim, bloody knife held out in one muscled, inked arm. His enormous cock jutted out in front of him, dangling over the prone corpse of his prey, still dripping pearls of manspunk onto the mute, helpless form.

Carlos’s attention was caught by a glint of light on the floor near his boot. Bending down, he noticed it was the thick gold chain. Chuckling, he picked it up and pocketed it, then looked around and located his leather vest. Snagging it and reaching into an inside pocket, he retrieved his pack of Marlboro Reds.

It was hot in the room; the powerful ex-con felt uncomfortably warm. He was gonna need more money to get a decent place in the heat; he had enough for the moment, and the chain in his pocket would certainly help—but for tonight, he was staying here, in this miserable sweatbox.

And it stank of blood and mansex.

Whirling around in disgust, Carlos strode to the bed and shoved Shaun’s cooling, stiffening body to the floor on the far side. He switched off the light on the nightstand and opened the door.

The buff alpha, still half-nude, stepped out on the walkway. He was pleasantly surprised to find a cool desert breeze blowing. Taking another drag off his cigarette, he looked up at the garishly-lit Stratosphere Tower only a few blocks east. To the south, he could see the glittering, blinking towers of the Vegas Strip.

Standing in the darkness, he knew he was where he was meant to be. So many rich homos to fuck, rob and slaughter—cheap whores, high-priced escorts, tourists looking for fun—he couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

The psychopathic homosexual serial killer he was tracking had at least a twenty-four hour lead on him. And it wasn’t as if Mark could discern a pattern anyway; despite being one of the best profilers employed by the FBI, he still couldn’t determine exactly why the dude had offed two low-level hustlers—one a paid dancer at a club—in the same night.

And the state in which he’d left them, especially that kid in the motel room…

Dan was still incommunicado on assignment and Mark was getting increasingly frustrated. He needed to find this motherfucker, and fast. This was gonna hit the news soon, even if it wasn’t linked across state lines to that dead trooper. The stripper knocked off in his apartment coulda been kept under wraps, but the room maid who found the dead drug slut in the motel went full mental and half the town knew something had happened by the time Mark had arrived.

Where the fuck was this guy?

————————————————————————–

The guy in question was in the last place Mark expected him to be. It was a cliché—and a true one—that criminals returned to the scene of their crimes, but even an experienced profiler wouldn’t have expected to find the Trucker in room 115 of the Waters Motel.

He’d planned to ask for the room when he checked in, but it turned out to be the one the aged clerk gave him anyway. He’d checked in using cash and a false name (like everyone else who used the place), leaving his rig back at the truck stop, as he’d done on his earlier visit. The only difference was that he was carrying an overnight bag on his walk to the motel.

This time, the room didn’t reek of crack and mansex, just a slight musty smell that the aggressively citrus-scented cleaner couldn’t quite overcome. The furniture was intact, but the mirror didn’t match the dresser. The TV and bedside lamps were new and very, very cheap.

The drywall had been replaced, but the paint was half a shade off, just barely noticeable. Most of the occupants of the room were doubtlessly too intent on other things to notice these details—much less guess at the savage beating, rape and murder that had caused them.

The Trucker dropped his bag on the floor. For a brief moment it all came back to him—the white-hot rage that burned within him when he discovered the whore stealing, the pleasure he got out of throwing the worthless cunt across the room before beating the fuck out of him, the fag suffering an agonizing, drawn-out death while riding his cock…

The powerful sadist grinned, his dick hard at the memory. Then he shook his head brusquely, clearing his mind. He was here for a specific purpose. Well, he always had a specific purpose—but now he had a specific target.

He glanced at his watch in the dim, depressing glow of the overhead light. Past ten p.m.—he needed to get ready. Retrieving his bag from the floor, he tossed it on the bed and began to strip.

Slipping off his loosely-laced work boots, he took off his jeans, peeling the thin denim from his bulging thighs and thick calves. Taking off his trucker’s cap, he ran his hands through his thick, fine hair, tousling the black strands before peeling off the thin white cotton t-shirt that clung to his hubcap pecs like a second skin, his large nipples proudly protruding from his broad chest.

Except for the white tube socks clinging to his muscled calves, the Trucker stood nude in the center of the room, facing the mirror.

He took a moment to admire his own body—an erotic, powerful killing machine. His broad chest, slightly glistening with sweat in the warm room, rose and fell with his even breaths. The faint motion was just enough for a dim shimmer of light to reflect from the dogtags nestled snugly in his wiry chest hair.

In the mirror, the Trucker’s eyes followed the line of fur down his firm, rippled abs. The happy trail became denser as it approached his waist, finally bursting out in a bush of curly black pubes. From the center of this dark nest, the alpha’s enormous cock jutted proudly. The memory of the last time he’d been here, the justice he’d meted out to the thieving boywhore, had gotten him hard.

As he watched the mirror, he could see his dick throb; the pulsations were visible from halfway across the room. And soon so was the faint twinkle refracting from a transparent drop of precum.

Not yet, he thought. He needed to get ready; he had a plan to put into motion.

And he knew he’d have an opportunity to drain his shaft later on.

Padding back to the bed, his feet still clad in the tight white cotton socks, he opened his bag and began extracting clothing. He removed a tan shirt and pair of slacks first. Underneath them was a pair of glossy brown leather boots, nearly knee-high. When they were out, all that was left, rattling in the bottom of the bag, was a pair of hardened steel handcuffs. Well, that and a bottle of Jack Daniels that quickly went into the nightstand drawer.

It was the Trooper’s uniform—well, most of it. The Trucker was planning on walking a fine line between enticement and intimidation tonight. Not that that was particularly unusual for him, but tonight his sense of purpose added something extra—perhaps a touch of anticipation, of eagerness, to tease his jaded appetite.

He dressed carefully. The Trooper had been slightly smaller than him, so the clothes were tight. The Trucker didn’t realize quite how tight until he tried to pull the smooth khaki trousers up over his thick, strong thighs. The tan-colored chinos clung to the alpha’s firm legs, stretching the seams to their limits.

Leaving the pants undone, he slipped on a clean white t-shirt, followed by the Trooper’s tan button-down shirt. The Trucker left the top two buttons unfastened, allowing a glimpse of his curly chest hair over the collar of the t-shirt.

After tucking the shirttail into the waist of the pants, the muscled stud picked up the jeans he’d tossed on the bed and unthreaded the thick belt from the loops. The belt, nearly two inches of black leather, was soon cinched tightly around his waist.

It wasn’t the Trooper’s original belt. He hadn’t kept the badge, and he’d gotten rid of the gun too. Guns weren’t his style to begin with—he liked to linger over his kills—but he had another reason as well.

After all, the local fags would clam up around a real cop. But a dude in a cop uniform would be an irresistible lure for some of the cockpigs, whether or not they were into roleplay.

The Trucker sat on the bed and pulled the knee-high glossy boots on before standing and facing the mirror again. His smile became colder and more evil as he assessed his appearance.

In front of him stood a tall, intimidating man whose body was rippled with muscles. The khaki uniform seemed to be painted onto his powerful physique; even the brown leather boots were bulging with his hard, thick calves. The black belt didn’t quite match, and there was no badge—no way he could be legitimately accused of impersonating an officer.

The cuffs he jammed into his hip pocket were the real deal, though. And as smoothly as the tan chinos clung to his firm, rounded buttocks, the cuffs were obvious.

Again, there were cockpigs who would find that irresistible. And the Trucker had a strong suspicion that his target would be one. Now, he just needed to wait. Quickly placing his original clothing into the bag, along with the work boots, he laid the bag smoothly into the top drawer of the dresser.

Turning out the light, the Trucker opened the blinds in the window. And waited.

He had a decent view across the parking lot and the street to the main entrance of the gay bar. As it turned out, he had to wait just over an hour before he saw the cunt he was stalking saunter down the street. The punk paused under the electric glare of the bar’s sign to check his wallet before pushing open the blacked-out door and vanishing inside.

The Trucker stood up straight, feeling his throbbing dick tentpoling the tight khaki chinos. The angry sensation of heat in his scrotum told him it was time to get the show on the road—he was done waiting. He strode out the door, ensuring the room was ready for his return with a quick backwards glance.

The Trooper’s boots thumped loudly on the parking lot blacktop, a forceful, masculine sound. The brown leather uppers gripped his legs snugly, bulging slightly as his thick calf muscles flexed with each step.

He crossed the street quickly. As it happened, there was no one out front when he approached the place. He slipped inside the door, noting the appraising leer of the bouncer—who was rubbing his groin.

The entryway was small and garishly lit. Once past it, though, the Trucker found himself in a Stygian blackness, broken by random strobe lights that induced instant disorientation by virtue of being out of synch with the pounding music. The cold, experienced killer grinned happily.

It was perfect. So much chaos—no one would be able to describe him with any accuracy.

Another benefit of the flashing, psychedelic atmosphere was that it gave him a brief moment of anonymity to reconnoiter. Once he stepped out of the shadows, he’d be the center of attention. He knew it. It wasn’t arrogance—it was simple fact. In the skin-tight cop uniform, he would be irresistible to all the cumpigs in the bar.

He was only after one. But he already knew that one was interested in him. The cunt wouldn’t recognize him in this getup—but would be flattered to be singled out.

After all, the Trucker was a well-built, powerful man, and he was dressed to highlight his physique. And the testosterone he was pumping out with his pheromones drew fags to him like moths to a candle. Or flies to a flytrap.

Either way, the insects died horribly.

He’d entered at one corner of a large open space. At the other was a huge TV screen, playing music videos that were utterly unrelated to the music actually playing. Two-thirds of the open area was dance floor; the remainder was a collection of rickety tables and chairs, sparsely occupied. The bar stretched along three of the four walls, with stools pulled up. Most of the clientele was either at the bar or on the dance floor.

Pausing in the shadows, the Trucker surveyed the crowd. It was just about midnight and the club was in full swing. Even though it was a small town in the middle of nowhere, it was the only gay bar in the county, so it tended to be pretty popular. And the proximity of the truck stop didn’t hurt.

The clientele was a mix—some twinks, some fat old trolls, and an assortment of muscular farm boy/manual labor types. That made it easier to sight his prey. He was after a twink; there weren’t enough to allow the punk to blend in.

The buff alpha spotted the boy—he was halfway down the bar on the left-hand side of the room. As the Trucker sized up his victim, he noticed that the kid was facing away from him, slowly nursing a Bud Light. In a room full of men in blue jeans and work boots or cowboy boots, the boy stood out—not so much as to draw a lot of attention, but enough to make him easy to track.

His shoulder-length black hair gleamed in the light, pulled back in a ponytail. The Trucker smirked in contempt—at least it was clean this time. Last time he’d seen the fucker, it had been greasy. It had also been loose and spread out over the ears, which was why the brawny killer hadn’t noticed the multiple silver studs piercing the kid’s ears.

The boy was about five foot ten, with a tight, lean swimmer’s build that was amply displayed by his too-small t-shirt, thin cotton in bright red that clung to his smooth torso and slim waist like a second skin. Beneath, the punk’s black skinny jeans gripped his taut asscheeks tightly and revealed every muscle in the youth’s legs.

His shoes were what stood out the most; a pair of Nike Kobe X Elites in black and red. Taller than most sneakers, they came several inches above his ankle. The cuffs of his jeans had gotten tucked inside; it gave him the appearance of wearing black cloth lace-up boots.

Time to make his move. The Trucker crossed to the bar, heading for the stool next to the kid. As he reached it, he made sure to jostle his prey while ordering a shot of Jack. Naturally enough, the boy turned and eyed the Trucker.

The cold, calculating killer ignored him, at least for the moment. But out of the corner of his eye, he could see the way the boy was checking him out. In fact, he could almost literally feel the punk’s hot, lascivious gaze sliding up and down his powerful body.

The kid was taking the bait.

The Trucker finally turned and acknowledged the boy, letting his glance flicker over the kid’s slim, firm body. The boy blinked, looked up into the Trucker’s face and gulped. “H-hey, man, wh-wh-what’s up?” he stammered, trying to give a show of insouciance and failing miserably.

The older man gave the youth a friendly smile. The little piece of shit was hooked. Time to play with his catch a little before reeling him in.

The punk’s lips must have gone dry; he literally licked them before replying. “Just looking for some fun,” he said, recovering a slight measure of nonchalance. “Name’s Zach…”

Here he broke off and peered up at the Trucker closely. “You look familiar,” he said questioningly. “Are you a model? You do porn?”

The well-built alpha chuckled pleasantly. “Naw, man, I ain’t done no porn—“ He broke off, remembering the video of him snuffing the stripper. “Well, nothin’ you seen, boy.”

As he expected, this aroused the kid even more.

“So you done something?” Zach asked eagerly. “What’d you do—play a cop? That outfit is so fuckin’ hot…”

The Trucker laughed. “No, I didn’t play a cop. But I can. Why—you want one?”

Here Zach hesitated, embarrassed. He blushed, then muttered, “No, not a cop…” The punk turned his reddened face away for a moment. He seemed to consider for a moment before shrugging his discomfort off and turned back to the Trucker.

“Naw, I don’t want a cop. I wanna jail guard. I spent three months in juvie—it don’t matter why—and there was this one guard who’d let me suck him off. He was so damn hot, I’da let him do anything he wanted, but that was all he’d do to me.”

Grinning bashfully, he shook his head, flicking his black ponytail. “You’re even hotter than he was. Can ya be a guard with a prisoner at your mercy?”

The effort to control himself forced the Trucker to dig his fingernails into the surface of the wooden bar. “Yeah,” he said evenly, “yeah, I think I can do that.”

He turned to fully face the boy, standing in such a way that the enormous erection tenting the chinos in his crotch was instantly obvious to Zach. The young slut again lost his cool, gasping aloud as he gazed on the evidence of the older dude’s ability to give him everything he wanted. Forcing his eyes away, the kid found them drawn to a glint of light at the stud’s waist. Peering closer, he could see the rounded metal arcs of handcuffs peeking out of the stud’s pocket.

That was it. That was all that was needed. The Trucker had landed his catch.

Time to take the fish back and clean it.

The Trucker could see that the fucker was still nursing his beer. “Ya might wanna get somethin’ stronger than that horse piss before I go Attica on yer ass, boy,” he chuckled.

Zach’s face, pockmarked with adolescent acne, flushed red again. “I-I can’t, dude. I’m only eighteen. The bartender slips me a Bud or two cause I suck him off sometimes, but they won’t serve me here.”

The kid lit up at the suggestion. “Fuck yeah, dude, let’s go!” he chirped giddily, slamming the remainder of his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Zach followed the Trucker out of the bar and across to the motel as eagerly as a puppy; if the young cunt had had a tail, he’d have been wagging it. His tall Nike hightops padded quietly on the pavement, the sound completely covered by the older man’s heavy footfalls—not that there was anyone to hear.

It was past midnight in a small country town; most of the action was already inside the bar (or one of several straight bars in town). They were able to reach the room without being seen by anyone, not that Zach paid attention. But the Trucker did.

The Trucker opened the door and went in, flicking on the lights as he entered. He stepped to the side to allow the boy to enter, then closed the door behind him, making certain that the self-locking latch had connected properly. Again, Zach paid no attention, seating himself on the bed and looking around.

The alpha crossed to the bathroom and grabbed a couple of disposable plastic cups. He handed them to Zach. “Here,” he said, “get that wrap off them while I get the bottle.” He allowed a slight gruffness into his tone, noting how the boy seemed to shudder at the ring of command in his voice.

The little cocksucker liked to be dominated. He liked to be forced to obey.

So it was time to give him something to obey. He grabbed the cups from the kid. “Now strip the bed, boy. Next time I look at it, I don’t wanna see nothin’ but the bottom sheet, ya hear me?”

The Trucker turned away from him to get the whiskey bottle out of the nightstand, which was probably a good thing; the sadistic killer was unable to completely hide the look of malevolent glee that crossed his face.

He opened the bottle and filled the cups, each about half full. They were eight-ounce cups; each had the equivalent of four shots. Turning around, he was pleased to see his order had been obeyed; everything had been swept off the bed into a pile on the far side of the room; the kid was sitting on the edge of the bed, his tight black jeans highlighted by the dingy, off-white fitted sheet.

The Trucker handed one of the cups to Zach.

“Here’s to yer jail rape, dude,” he grinned, “here’s to a fuck so long and hard you’ll remember it for the rest of yer life—no matter how long that is.” He bumped the rims of the plastic cups together before tossing back the entire cupful. He steeled himself as the smoky amber liquid coursed down his throat, setting his blood aflame. He cleared his throat twice, shook his head, and set the cup down, staring expectantly at Zach.

He knew damn well Zach hadn’t had much in the way of hard booze before, not if he was already known at the bar. He didn’t seem to know what a large amount he’d been handed, and he didn’t want the hot cop dude to think he couldn’t take it. Without hesitation, he shot back all four ounces as well.

Well, not as well. Not well at all, in fact; it took a moment for it to hit him, then he fell to his knees with his hands at his searing throat, coughing and crying. His face was bright red and he was gasping like he’d drunk acid—but he didn’t puke. He kept the booze down.

Even as Zach tried to control his choking, he could feel his cock stiffening in his groin, painfully restrained by his tight jeans. This was it; this was the real deal. This hard motherfucker was gonna treat him like the pig he was. He couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

And that was when the alcohol hit. The Trucker had been right; Zach wasn’t used to that amount of liquor—certainly not at once. The boy tried unsteadily to rise off his knees. He put his hand out to the nightstand for support but kept missing it, his hand grabbing at air.

“C’mon, bitch, stand up,” the muscled strongman snapped, stepping forward and jerking the boy upright by his arm. Once on his feet again, Zach grinned up at the Trucker. The pockmarked teen was only attractive in his youth, his smooth slim body. His face was slightly rounded, with a weak chin and large, bloodshot brown eyes. His nose was crooked and slightly snub, and his long black hair was coarse and stringy.

Ain’t no one gonna miss this one, the Trucker thought. And after all, he was at the height of his attraction now; really, it was a mercy to waste him.

Of course, the Trucker’s method wasn’t going to be merciful, but that was beside the point. The worthless little faggot needed to be taught a lesson and the powerful alpha was gonna make sure the cunt learned it if was the last thing the boy learned on earth—which it would be.

But for now, he was willing to take his time, to play a little. And he was curious to see just how far he could go before the cumpig realized that his fantasy was becoming a snuff.

“C’mon, punk, get outta that shirt,” he barked, “ya know the drill; I gotta search ya, make sure you ain’t got no weapons.” Zach complied right away, pulling the tight red t-shirt up over his head and shaking his ponytail free. He stood facing the Trucker, swaying drunkenly, his soft, smooth skin glistening faintly with a thin sheen of sweat as his chest heaved in excitement. The long, swollen ridge in his groin, wrapped tightly in black denim, pulsed visibly as the teen gasped raggedly in lust.

“Up against the wall, boy, NOW!” the older man shouted suddenly, “assume the position!” Startled, the kid jumped, but instantly did as he was told, wheeling around and placing his palms flat on the wall. Then the Trucker approached.

The muscle-bound alpha pressed himself against Zach’s back, leaning in to whisper. “Gonna frisk ya, bitch—and if I find anything, I’m gonna do a cavity search.” With that, he placed his large, strong hands on the teen and began to fondle him. He wrapped one arm around the boy’s chest, holding him in place like an iron bar while he shoved the other hand down the front of the kid’s jeans.

The Trucker grabbed hold of Zach’s long, throbbing cock and began to twist it and squeeze it, slowly increasing the force until the youth was whimpering in pain. Floundering in a haze of lust and alcohol, Zach found himself unable to break free; with each brutal wrench of his scrotum, he could feel his tormentor’s huge pecs bulging in effort, pressed against his back.

The young cockpig loved it.

“F-fuckin’-A,” he slurred, moaning ecstatically, “yeah, dude, I’ll be yer fuckin’ prison bitsh. Use me, you fucker…” He broke off in a breathy gasp, shuddering with pleasure.

Without saying a word, the Trucker let go of the boy’s dick and withdrew his hands. With a sudden, practiced movement, he jerked Zach’s hands around behind his back and had them cuffed before the boy even realized what had happened. Even when he did realize, he was too incapacitated by the booze to do much.

He stood and swayed, staring blearily at the Trucker as the latter slowly unbuttoned the cop’s tan dress shirt and tossed it on the floor. Next, the older stud unbuckled his thick leather belt and unsnaked it from his tight waist, hanging it over the headboard of the bed. Only after all this was complete did his pull off the thin white cotton t-shirt.

If Zach had been less drunk, he might have recognized that amazing chest, broad and muscled with dark wiry hair; it had certainly drawn his attention the last time he’d seen it. Unluckily for him, the alcohol was interfering with his sense of danger to such an extent that even the sight of the dogtags nestled between the alpha’s hubcap-like pecs didn’t send up a red flag.

“C’mere, faggot,” the Trucker snarled. “C’mere and work my chest, you jailyard cumslut.”

Zach approached the brawny sadist slowly, almost hesitant to touch the Trucker for fear that his fantasy would pop like a bubble. The Trucker grunted with impatience. He reached out and snagged the teen by one of his ear studs and brutally yanked him closer, making Zach cry out in pain. But before he could yelp again, his face was being ground into the alpha’s chest; the older man’s fur scraping at his skin like steel wool.

“Work it, cunt, get yer tongue out and work it!” came a vicious hiss. Zach did as he was told, running his tongue along the dude’s skin, slurping up a heady salty mix of mansweat and pheromones. The teen’s adolescent body, already in a ferment of hormones, went into overdrive. He felt the hard metallic edges of the dogtags slicing against his face—painful, but too dull to break the skin.

As Zach knelt to run his tongue down the length of the Trucker’s rippled abs, his own young, slim body was flooded with testosterone and adrenaline. When the buff alpha pulled the boy back up to his feet and forced the kid’s face into his pits, the youth was pressed against him and he could feel the hot rigid shaft in the punk’s crotch. “C’mon, ya fuckin’ jailbait, work my pits good,” he growled, “show me how ya keep yer cellie clean.”

The Trucker abruptly stood up straight and, grabbing Zach by the upper arms, threw him down onto the bed on his back. The boy drew a sharp, surprised intake of breath. His eyes opened wide as the Trucker loomed ominously over him and, bending down, grabbed the fly of Zach’s jeans. A single rough, swift jerk undid the button; the loose zipper came down immediately.

Another couple of jerks and the Trucker had peeled the jeans off the kid completely, turning them inside out as he shucked the boy like corn. There was a slight ripping sound as the cuffs were forced over the heels of Zach’s Kobe X’s, but a little extra tightening of his bicep was enough to power through the resistance.

Zach didn’t protest the damage to his pants; he was both too drunk and too horny to care. Despite the former, he was able to demonstrate the latter with no doubt; his own dick had bobbed up ecstatically the moment it was free from the confining denim, slapping against his flat belly and spattering precum like a fine rain, the drops of which were caught on the soft brown fur surrounding his navel.

“Fuck, man,” the horny young punk moaned, “you got me in cuffs, you can lock me up and do what the fuck you wanna do to me…”

Nude but for the Nike hightops laced above his ankles, Zach’s smooth skin gleamed with the slight film of sweat worked up by his sexual ecstasy. He writhed in erotic helplessness as the heavily-muscled stranger towered over him.

“Do me,” the teen gasped, almost involuntarily. “Stick it in me…” It was obvious that his rational mind was shut down, overpowered by the hormones rampaging through his slender but firm body. The adolescent faggot wanted dick. He wanted it rough, and he wanted it now.

The Trucker was only too happy to provide. But not yet. He’d left a pack of Marlboro Reds on the dresser. Wheeling abruptly on the heel of his boot, he walked across the room and took a moment to light one up, completely ignoring the desperately randy youth shuddering on the bed.

Turning back, he could see that the little fuck had raised his head. Whimpering faintly, the kid was gazing at him with a look of raw sexual hunger. Zach was actually right—the Trucker could do whatever he wanted to the teenager. No one could stop him.

His grin deepened, giving him a predatory, carnivorous look.

The Trucker approached the bed again slowly, his incredible body rippling with menace. He exhaled a cloud of smoke over the boy before placing the cigarette, still lit, on the nightstand. Reaching down to his groin, he lowered his own zipper. His massive dong was too large to fall out of the trooper’s tight beige chinos on its own; the Trucker had to reach in with both hands to extract the thick, pulsing tube of meat.

Drunk and horny as he was, Zach blanched when he saw the monster cock emerge, throbbing and dripping. Things were long past the point of him having the power to object, though, even if he hadn’t been swamped in teenage horniness. But when the older man bent down over him, the youth lost whatever trepidation had penetrated his whiskey-fumed haze.

His large dark eyes greedily drank in the alpha’s broad hairy pecs as they got closer. For a moment, he was distracted by the jingling dogtags before looking up to the stud’s scruffy face, hard and handsome, with icy blue eyes…

The punk’s reverie was shattered as the Trucker grabbed him by the arms and yanked him roughly, positioning him so that his head was at the head of the bed. Instantly, the sadistic strongman was on the bed on his knees, his large callused hands pressed against the boy’s smooth, firm thighs and forcing them apart, then lifting them.

Before Zach knew it, he was staring fuzzily at his Nike Kobe Xs, kicking the empty air over the Trucker’s shoulders.

“Yeah, cunt, ya liked gettin’ fucked in juvie, huh?” the Trucker sneered, gripping his dick in one hand like a club and slapping it into the palm of the other, spattering as much precum on Zach as the randy teen had himself. “Ya liked bein’ backed into a corner and gettin’ raped? Hell yeah, boy, I’m gonna shag ya like a prison bitch, you fuckin’ sack of shit!” Zach laid his head back on the bed, shuddering in bottom pig pleasure. He never saw it coming; he didn’t see the Trucker aiming his gigantic cock right at the kid’s tender pink fuckhole.

He damn sure felt it.

The adolescent felt pressure against his sphincter—a pressure that swelled to excruciating pain in the blink of an eye. It happened so fast that Zach couldn’t breathe. The slim youth looked up at the Trucker with tormented, watering eyes as he gasped like a dying fish, unable to catch his breath from sheer agony.

The searing, white-hot pain of ripped flesh and torn muscles slashed through the mist of alcohol in his brain. His desperate hyperventilation seemed to go on forever; he was forcing his air out with a high-pitched panicked whine that didn’t give his lungs enough time to absorb oxygen. As darkness mercifully closed in on the nightmarish physical shock he was experiencing, Zach seemed to see, without quite registering it, a cold, cruel light of lust illuminating the alpha’s eyes without thawing their cold steel-blue tint.

The Trucker spent the next couple of minute raping the kid’s motionless ass. Unconsciousness caused the boy’s muscles to relax; his sphincter, torn and bleeding, gave way at last, allowing the Trucker to penetrate deep into the punk’s colon.

Zach came to slowly, moaning and blinking. The horrible spearing pain in his ass was still there, but now he could feel the pulsing immenseness of the muscled stud’s rod plugging his rectum. The powerful man was bearing down on him with each vicious thrust of his hips; the handcuffs binding the slut’s hands painfully crushed between his back and the stripped bed.

“Shut up,” the Trucker snarled, “ya wanted to get fucked like a prison bitch? You got it, cunt. I’m gonna use you like fresh meat and the more ya squeal, the more I’m gonna ream out yer hole like the jailyard pig you are. Trust me, you worthless piece of shit, I know how to make you hurt.”

Tightly gripping the youth’s slim hips, the sadistic killer held him down on the bed and drilled the kid’s mangled fuckhole, his powerful thigh muscles flexing and bulging with each excruciatingly deep pump of his shaft. Zach tried to protest but the violence and pain of the assault left him unable to speak; he could only stare beseechingly into the cold, contemptuous face of his tormentor.

The cruel alpha smirked at the pain-wracked adolescent writhing on his dick. “Guess what, faggot?” he hissed malevolently. “You’re locked in with a killer—just like prison, huh? Ya got what ya want; is that fuckin’ hot or what?”

Zach was still trying to figure out how his greatest fantasy had morphed into an excruciating nightmare. The actual meaning of the Trucker’s words took some time to sink in. When they did, they hit a brick wall of deliberate incomprehension.

The Trucker leaned down and rested his body full length on top of the boy, sweat-streaked skin to skin, full length. The punk’s legs twisted painfully to the side as the weight of the older man’s well-built body crushed him; the dogtags digging into the kid’s heaving chest.

From this position, the Trucker’s hard-edged, masculine face, twisted with rage and sick lust, filled Zach’s field of view. “Yes I can,” the sadist whispered icily. “And I have. Right here. Look around ya, boy—you ain’t gonna be the first homo cunt I wasted in this room.”

Again, Zach’s face was blank; the teenager was either too frightened or simply too stupid to understand the allusion. Not that it bothered the Trucker—he was looking forward to enlightening the cunt.

“I knew you were a worthless pansy slut the first time I laid eyes on ya,” the brawny, powerful sadist growled. “Or the first time you laid eyes on me. Just another disgusting faggot who wanted my body. And since ya couldn’t keep yer homo trap shut, you’re gonna get my body—all up in your guts.”

A dim light of recognition glinted in Zach’s shocked, terrified eyes. That face, that broad hairy chest—he had seen them before; in fact, he’d gone home that night and jerked off until he was sore over the memory of them.

This was the hot guy from the truck stop; the one who’d asked about the bar. He’d come back in a couple of hours later, bare-chested, sweaty, hot as all fuck…

…and that was the night that cheap-ass rent boy got the shit beat out of him. Kid was raped and strangled, in this motel…

The Trucker watched the horrifying realization dawn on the boy. The panic in his victim’s face made his dick, sunk deep into the teen’s rectum, pulse and swell. He knew exactly what thoughts were running through the punk’s head.

“This room, dude,” the Trucker whispered with malicious cruelty as one hand crept towards the head of the bed. “That spot on the wall where I frisked ya? They fixed it good—I threw that cunt into it so hard he went through the sheetrock. Slammed the motherfucker through the TV, too. Thieving queer-ass cocksucker tried to steal my wallet, so I fucked him to death.”

He drew back his hand, now clutching the belt he’d left over the headboard, without once allowing Zach’s wide, shock-rimmed eyes to escape from his own terrifyingly hypnotic gaze, at once white-hot with lust and ice-cold with killing rage.

“It took him a long time to die. And it hurt—I made sure of that. When he finally died, he was grateful to escape the agony.” The Trucker lowered his face down to Zach’s, so close that his dark scruff scraped against the boy’s cheek as the alpha whispered into his ear. “And all he did was to try to steal my wallet. You squealed about me to the cop.”

He pulled back and raised himself up so that he was kneeling over Zack, his enormous shaft still jammed up inside the frightened teen’s smooth body. He held the belt now in both hands, letting the import of both his words and the leather strap sink in.

“The cop, yeah? You remember him? I raped and tortured him to death, too. I took my time with him and left his baton jammed up his ass. You’re the last loose end—and the one with the biggest lesson to learn.”

Zach understood. He knew what was about to happen, and why. He also knew that there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to evade the brutal violence he was about to endure, but this didn’t resign him to his fate.

In a moment, the teenager went into full reflex mode, his lean but muscled body thrashing and flailing in blind panic. He wrapped his legs around the Trucker’s firm, hard flanks and squeezed; the alpha responded by slipping his arms under the teen’s legs and hoisting them back onto his shoulder, where the punk’s Nike kicks flailed uselessly in the air.

Zach was in too much fear to be able to cry for help or even scream effectively; he gibbered and squealed like a stuck pig, spittle flecking his thick lips. As his sweat-streaked body writhed on the bed, his terror was so strong that a stream of piss was shot out of his long cock, even though it was still semi-erect from the adolescent hormonal overload.

The Trucker glared down at the helpless, fear-maddened teenager. “Stop squealin’, you stupid motherfucker,” he barked in anger. “You don’t even deserve to die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit; I shoulda just offed ya. But I wanna drain my balls, and since I gotta snuff ya anyway, I might as well dump my load in yer ass as I take ya out.”

Zach’s first panic had faded, simply because he didn’t have the energy to sustain his frenzied thrashing. “No…no…you…no…” he moaned quietly.

“Shut the fuck up, cunt,” the Trucker said evenly as he drove his fist into Zach’s jaw. The boy gave a deep, instinctive grunt of pain as his mouth slammed shut and he bit through his tongue. The vicious alpha spit into the face of the suffering youth, the phlegm sliding down the kid’s smooth cheeks and mingling with the blood leaking out of his mouth.

Stunned, awash in agony and sheer terror, Zach inhaled deeply. He’d found his voice again; even though no conscious thought was involved, his animal midbrain realized that the only way to survive the next hour was to get help by alerting others. He didn’t know he needed to scream; it was going to happen anyway.

The Trucker knew he needed to scream, though, and he wasn’t gonna have it. Zach had stopped inhaling and had opened his mouth wide to shriek, when it all came to sudden halt. Instantly, a thick band of crushing pain circled his throat, and he couldn’t scream. He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t breathe. Nothing. Nothing he could do. He wrung his hands in the cuffs underneath him, the sudden panic overriding the pain as the case-hardened steel tore cruelly into the tender flesh in the small of his back and bloodily flayed the skin from his wrists. Nothing. That pain around his throat—it was the belt…

Still fucking the boy’s torn asshole, deeply and intently, the Trucker focused his eyes on Zach’s face and watched him start to die. The kid continued to kick and writhe as he fought for his short, wasted life; all that the youth’s frantic struggles accomplished was to give this killer’s cock a nice, vigorous massage. As he twisted and jerked, he burnt though his oxygen even faster.

His face swelled and darkened, turning purple—and so did his dick. The teen could feel his own erection, but the sensation was lost in the horrifying agony of strangulation. As his throat was compressed, Zach’s eyes, wide with terror, started to bulge. He could feel his tongue swelling, too—it seemed to fill his entire mouth.

The worst pain of all was still in his ass, though—that was the truly nightmarish part of Zach’s situation; he wasn’t only forced to suffer the pain and violence of a slow murder, he also had to endure the pain and violence of a vicious rape. It was too much. It was overwhelming. His weak adolescent psyche crumbled under the onslaught of the attack.

The Trucker had no intention of letting him slide into a catatonic haze, though. He wasn’t done with him—not by a long shot. “You stupid motherfucker,” he contemptuously taunted the dying teenager, “this is what happens to dumbass squealin’ cocksuckers. Only reason yer still alive, faggot, is cause you ain’t milked my cum out. Does it hurt, you worthless cunt? Ya want me to stop it? I’ll end your useless homo life the second I fill your guts with sperm.”

He gripped the belt forcefully, straining his biceps as he tightened the strap around the boy’s neck. Bending down, he spit into the kid’s distorted, blackening face as he sneered, “When it hurts bad enough, you’ll wanna die. Make me cum, slut, and I’ll stop the pain and the fear. C’mon, you worthless fag, drain me and die”

The helpless, choking youth could feel the rigid stiffness of his own dick. Even as his lithe, smooth body convulsed and kicked, he was still gruesomely aware of his own throbbing erection. As Zach twitched beneath him, the Trucker could see that the teen was swiftly going under. He kept up the tension in the belt; the room filled with the musk of sex and sweat, forced out of his bulging muscles by the effort.

Suddenly the punk went rigid, his stiff dick bobbing up, its oozing head smacking wetly against the alpha’s rippled abs. His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but blood-streaked whites under fluttering lids.

He was edging—literally. Zach was trembling on the brink of irreparable brain death.

The Trucker grunted in anger. He wasn’t even close to cumming. Worthless little faggot couldn’t even make him shoot as he died.

Ok, so it wasn’t time for him to die. The Trucker slackened the belt; after a couple of convulsive gurgles, Zach began to cough uncontrollably, blood-spotted mucus from his damaged throat splattering his cheeks.

The powerful sadist, his hard, heaving body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, remained looming over the gasping adolescent, his monstrous shaft still jammed deeply into Zach’s guts. He stopped pumping, though, taking a moment to let the boy wake up. The Trucker wanted him conscious again before starting the next round.

And anyway, the fuckmeat was still desperately trying to catch his breath; in his struggles, he was working his killer’s shaft pretty damn good on his own.

The traumatized youth slowly clawed his way back into consciousness; the pain flooded in as he gradually came to. The dark lividness of Zach’s drool-smeared face drained away while his breathing slowed slightly—it was still rapid and ragged, but he was no longer gasping violently in an attempt to stave off brain death.

The kid’s fuckhole was still gripping the Trucker’s thick tool like a fist in a velvet glove, but it was no longer jacking him off. On his shoulders, the hard-bodied top could feel the high fabric tops of Zach’s Nikes, resting now as opposed to flailing in the air, but still trembling perceptibly. With his arms still wrapped around the boy’s legs, the silky-smooth flesh of the latter’s inner thighs was pressed against his rapist’s sweaty, powerful flanks.

The belt was still wrapped around Zach’s neck; no longer crushing his windpipe, it was still sunk into the skin. With a deliberate intent to cause pain, the Trucker viciously jerked it free from the punk’s throat, flaying the skin underneath. Zach was still too weak to do more than shudder and make faint mewling noises, as much in fear as in agony.

The Trucker passed the end of the belt through the buckle, making a loop, and slipped it back over the boy’s head. Now he had a slipknot leash to pull the kid up with one hand.

He did so. The other hand he used to deliver a driving roundhouse punch to Zach’s face; the immediate result was a wet smacking sound, a deep involuntary grunt of pain and the faint crunching sound of the teen’s cheekbone breaking.

Zach was wedged into an excruciating position—his slim, firm torso brutally yanked up by the loop of leather around his neck, his arms twisted agonizingly behind his back while his expensive kicks had slipped from the Trucker’s shoulders but were still caught in the latter’s arms. The only part of the boy still touching the bed was his ass—and the Trucker’s huge, rigid cock was still plugging it.

Zach retreated mentally; the sheer horror that the knowledge of his helplessness, his utter inability to prevent or evade whatever nightmarish torture this sexual psychopath wished to inflict on him, plunged him into a state where he was capable of little more than response to stimuli. His fogged attention, like an animal’s, focused blearily on bright, shiny objects, which was how Zach found himself staring at the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling against the latter’s hard furry chest, as the tortured teen homo wallowed in agony.

The Trucker could see the blank, stunned look in the eighteen-year-old kid’s eyes; it was the look of a youth who had been subjected to an unexpected and shockingly violent assault. The sadist’s powerful body was filled with a strong urge to overwhelm and destroy the boy, to literally fuck him to death.

He braced himself by extending one leg, planting the glossy brown boot on the floor and tensing his thighs, making them bulge visibly in the tight beige chinos he still wore. He channeled his sexual rage into his fist, driving it into the side of the kid’s head with such explosive savagery that he lost his grip on the belt—he’d literally knocked the little fuck right out of his own hand.

Zach’s head whipped to the side, flinging his dark ponytail behind as his skull hit the nightstand with a loud crack. The impact toppled both the lamp, which fell to the floor and broke, and the bottle of Jack, which stayed on the stand. The amber-colored fluid splashed across the flat surface, drenching Zach’s hair and adding a distinct smoky scent to the pheromone-laden air.

“Goddam it,” the Trucker muttered in the deep, guttural growl of a predator, “that shit cost more than you’re worth, you miserable pansy.” He leaned down and whispered into the ear of the semi-conscious teen, so close that even in his deep, pain-wracked haze, he could feel the killer’s wiry scruff as it grazed his cheek. “You owe me, cunt; how ya gonna pay? Huh?”

Then the Trucker paused. At this distance he could see the studs in the kid’s ear much more clearly; there were three—and the top one had a slight sparkle.

“Motherfuck—ya been holdin’ out on me, boy. Bad mistake. If that tiny chip is real diamond, it might cover the cost of my booze. Maybe. Lemme take a look. If it’s real, I’m gonna take the other one too.”

He spread his huge hand out and placed it on the side of Zach’s head; placing all his weight on that arm, he forced the kid’s head down onto the nightstand with such power that the unfortunate youth was already mewling with pain when the Trucker started fondling the top stud. He held the ear between two fingers, one looped about the stud, the other around its back.

Then, with a single tremendous jerk, he tore the stud out of the teen’s ear.

The sharp agony of ripped flesh snapped the tormented adolescent out of his catatonic state; he tried to scream but could only push out a high, thin shriek that spiraled into a croak. His bloodshot eyes, huge and darkly ringed by shock, were riveted on the Trucker, who was examining the stud under the light on the other nightstand.

The pain in his ear, now throbbing with his pulse as blood flowed from the wound, was so severe that he even managed to forget the gigantic rod that even now was still skewering his torn colon. But what he couldn’t forget was his own erection; his dick was so stiff as to be downright painful. He didn’t know how it could still be so hard after all he’d suffered.

It never occurred to him that he liked it. On some level, he wanted and deserved it, but he could never have admitted it.

And whatever he desired, pain overrode the physical and fear the mental aspects. No matter how hard he got, how close he came to shooting his wad, he was still going to fight death to the very end. He wouldn’t submit, no matter how much he wanted to.

The Trucker didn’t give him the choice.

Repositioning his big cop boot on the thin carpet, he shifted his muscled mass and pulled Zach back upright on the bed by the belt around his neck. Reaching around to the other side of the punk’s head, he ripped the top stud on that side out too.

This time, the response was much stronger. This stud had been torn from the side of the punk’s head that had been drenched in whiskey; the alcohol burned like fire as it trickled into the open wound.

Zach screeched like an ape, twisting and shuddering violently. His black Nikes kicked the air behind the Trucker’s head—until the kid made the mistake of jerking one leg in and kicking the Trucker right in the side of the head.

“Ok, meat, that’s it. Yer done.” Enraged, the powerful alpha yanked the belt in a whip-like motion, unexpectedly snapping Zach’s head down and to the side so that it smashed back onto the nightstand. Except it didn’t—it smashed into the half-empty whiskey bottle and shattered it, shards of glass slicing open the skin at Zach’s temple. A jagged edge left on the base of the bottle left a shallow—but long and painful—slash across his cheek.

Instantly, the teen was jerked back up into position, his rectum rotating on the Trucker’s engorged tool. Scrambling his pricey kicks, Zach drew his legs up and, planting his feet on the older man’s rippled washboard abs, pushed himself off the bed—and off the Trucker’s cock. The smooth young teen, half-insane with fear, threw himself on the thin, cheap carpet, bleating in terror as he tried to wriggle away from his killer.

The Trucker had grunted with surprise at the blow, but otherwise didn’t make a sound. He simply stood up and strode towards Zach, his powerful muscled form looming over the nude youth. Flat on his back with his arms twisted behind him, the kid was still erect despite the pain from his mangled ears, and slashed head, all still bleeding.

But as the Trucker towered above, Zach shot another golden stream of piss involuntarily across his firm, smooth chest, already glittering with sweat. The teenager was lost in a rising tide of doom; turning his head to the side, he could see the shiny finish on the tall cop boots. His eyes traveled up the legs, muscles visibly bulging through the skin-tight sand colored chino trousers…

The heaving, furry chest above, dogtags lying between the broad, hubcap-like pecs…and above that, the face…that face. That hard face, the cold, cold rage in those eyes that showed there would be no mercy, no remorse, nothing but the desire to inflict as much pain as possible.

In his mind, Zach screamed; what came out of his mouth was a feeble gurgle.

The Trucker trembled with rage as he glared down at the worthless fag who dared to defy him, to try to escape the consequences of his actions. The tall, well-built killer bent over slowly at the waist, extending his hand and reaching out to the helpless boy who cowered and sniveled in terror. The muscle-bound stud grabbed the end of the belt that was still looped around the kid’s neck.

Standing up, the half-nude alpha continued to raise his arm as if he was doing curls with a set of weights. As the bicep on his arm flexed with the strain, the Trucker lifted Zach up off the ground and held the slim young teen dangling in the air.

The boy kicked weakly, his Nike hightops dancing in the air as his own weight tightened the leather strap around his neck and cut off his breath. Struggling uselessly as the incredibly powerful older man literally hanged him by holding him in the air, the sweaty, shuddering punk was nonetheless aware of his own dick slapping wetly against his firm, flat belly as he thrashed and choked.

The red-tinted blackness that filled Zach’s bewildered mind had the effect of focusing his attention on the hard, chiseled face of his assailant. It was somehow getting him even hornier; he could feel it even as he felt consciousness slipping away. That strong, hard jaw, that jet-black goatee surrounded by fainter fuzz—a five o’clock shadow of gunmetal blue that darkened the sadist’s cheeks—and those eyes. Again, those eyes—so blue, bright with a light that curiously combined the heat of lust and rage with the calculating coldness of an experienced killer.

And then Zach was snapped out of it. In fact, he was damn near snapped out of life forever. With the loud, snarling growl of a vicious predator, the Trucker whipped his arm to the side. The belt popped like a whip as the teenage boy flew through the air and slammed into the wall so hard he blacked out for a moment.

But it was just a moment; as he blinked and tried to breathe—the impact hadn’t loosened the leather noose enough for him to inhale—he could feel death approach in the heavy tread of the boots on the floor behind him. He was lying near the far wall of the room, facing it, his back to the room. Turning his bulging eyes up, he could see the huge dent his body had made in the drywall.

As the boots paused, directly behind him, Zach had a brief flash of clarity—and memory. Something this hot, erotic, cruel, brutal psycho…something this dude had said…the other guy. That whore. He’d been killed in this room—but he’d been beaten into hamburger first.

And part of that beating had put him through the wall too.

Once again, despite his huge and painfully throbbing erection, Zach lost control of his bladder to such an extent that the stream of urine that shot out of him hit the wall and splashed the teen with his own piss before he was hoisted into the air again, his slender young body jerking and kicking.

The Trucker sneered contemptuously at the choking boy. The muscles in the powerful alpha’s arm were knotted with the strain of holding the kid up off the ground, but it was worth the effort to watch his expensive Nike kicks flail as they desperately sought some support to relieve the crushing pain in the suffering punk’s throat.

Then, in a lightning-swift motion, the strongman flung his helpless young victim across the room again. In his suffocating haze, Zach felt a brief giddiness but was mostly unaware of his flight. He was aware when it was interrupted, though, the impact of smashing headfirst into the flatscreen TV piercing through his dying fog.

This time, when he landed on the floor on his back, the belt noose loosened. His lungs, full of useless carbon dioxide, emptied immediately with a loud sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt. Much like before, his esophagus had been so badly crushed and traumatized that the expelled breath was accompanied by bloody mucus.

The Trucker approached. He stood over his victim, his cold, stony gaze taking in the sight of the raped and tortured youth. While his prey stared at the ceiling with wide-eyed shock, gasping violently, the vicious sadist took pleasure in letting his enormous cock jut out over the shuddering, sweating teen. Large clear drops of precum welled from the slit in the center of his purple, engorged mushroom tip; they fell at random, sprinkling the writhing adolescent with his killer’s bodily fluids. “Stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker said in his steely bass voice, his cold even tone more frightening than any screaming or ranting could have been.

He bent down. Zach saw him coming. He was completely and utterly unable to prevent whatever was coming; all he could do was gasp and try to inhale as much oxygen as possible in case it was cut off.

It was. Instantly. The Trucker snatched the belt again. This time, there was no admiring, gloating dangle for the meat; the teenager experienced swift motion and terrible, slashing pain, but was too traumatized to realize he’d been thrown into the dresser and had shattered the mirror. The glass slashed at the smooth, soft skin on his back but, like his encounter with the whiskey bottle, the injuries were agonizing but not serious.

When he fell to the floor this time, he landed face down. The majority of Zach’s attention at this point was absorbed in trying to breathe; it was few seconds before the faint crunching sound of boots grinding glass into the carpet seeped into his awareness.

The Trucker was stepping on the remains of the mirror as he moved towards writhing prey. Without a word, his huge muscled body moving with startling swiftness, the older man snatched the lithe, trembling teen, not by the belt this time, but by his long black ponytail. For a single horrifying moment, Zach was suspended by his hair and felt his scalp starting to tear before the Trucker threw him on the bed.

Actually, threw him at the bed. Zach smacked face-first into the headboard before rebounding and rolling back; he ended up nearly in the center of the mattress but turned ninety degrees to the orientation of the bed. His long, smooth legs hung over the side, hightops not quite touching the floor.

On his back again now, he could look up and see the hulking form of his torturer towering implacably over him. The powerful stud’s vicious sadism was obvious in his massive, throbbing cock, jutting proudly over the trapped youth and oozing a steady stream of transparent precum. Above that, the psycho’s furred and heavily muscled torso was heaving, a faint sheen of sweat making his hard body glisten. The stony, merciless look of cold masculinity on the handsome face was accented by the icy glitter in the eyes.

Zach looked into those eyes and he knew—no matter what type of personal hell he was gonna endure in the next few minutes, there would be no return from the silent darkness this time. Death was staring him in the face.

But Death was gonna fuck him first.

Hoisting the kid’s legs, the Trucker dropped the punk’s Kobe X Elites on his shoulders and shoved the thick purple head of his shaft against the boy’s torn, quivering sphincter. At the first hint of pressure, Zach moaned in terror and writhed, trying to wriggle away from the huge tool about to penetrate him.

And yet, with all the pain and the fear, the hormone-fueled adolescent still felt the overwhelming physical lure of the hard-bodied older man. The funk of mansex and pheromones that pervaded the room so densely that it nearly coagulated into a visible fog that intensified the young slut’s sexual dilemma. Zach’s own dick was hard and pulsating and he didn’t know why. But as the Trucker lunged at him again, the boy couldn’t spare the time to worry about it.

“P-please…” the battered youth gasped faintly, “I-I’ll do any-anything…use me…hu-humiliate me, I w-won’t tell anyone…” Here the slender kid gave way. Stupid little piece of shit that he was, even he could figure out that tonight was gonna end with him taking a dirt nap. He burst into tears. “D-don’t kill me, man, p-p-please, I won-won’t tell anyone but don’t k-kill me, please, man, oh fuck, oh please—“

The Trucker’s sole response was an evil grin that spread slowly across his sexy masculine features. Zach saw it and understood, instantly breaking into loud, hysterical sobs as he went into panic mode. The older stud decided that the meat needed something else to think about than becoming meat. With a single powerful, brutal thrust, he plunged his monstrous vein-wrapped cock all the way up the teenager’s ass, tearing the sphincter and mangling the colon.

Eyes so wide with pain and shock that they seemed about to pop out of his head, Zach’s sobbing spiraled up into a frenetic shriek of agony. “Shaddup, faggot,” the Trucker barked, popping the unfortunate punk in the jaw one last time before cinching the belt down on his neck. The cunt’s scream was instantly throttled off into a wet gagging sound.

Wrapping the thick leather strap around his hand—so he could control the tightness of the noose while keeping one hand free—the Trucker flopped forward, his heavy, powerful body crushing the slender youth beneath him. Zach’s legs, propped up on his assailant’s shoulders, were compressed back towards his body until his knees were resting on his chest. And the weight of both males on his arms, still cuffed around his back, was excruciating.

The last few minutes of Zach’s short, wasted life were filled with unimaginable pain and terror. He was pinned under the sheer physical bulk of his killer, feeling the alpha’s hard muscles flexing against him on a light lube of sweat as the older man continued to plunge his enormous shaft deep into the boy’s torn, bleeding guts. The alpha’s wiry body fur scraped against the teen’s soft, silky flesh like steel wool.

The Trucker jerked the belt tightly. His dogtags, laying on the meat’s smooth firm chest, were dislodged by the violence of the fucking; they slid up to Zach’s neck and slipped, jingling, into the depression circling his throat, caused by the leather garrote.

At this distance, the twisted sadist could enjoy the effects of the strangulation in detail. As the slim, dying teen writhed beneath him, the cunt’s cock stayed hard as it slid on oily sweat between two flat, firm bellies pressed together in desperate, brutal sex. His confusion was obvious, even on his swelling, darkening face.

Zach’s body, slender but strong with youth, was wracked and contorted with pain. The thick leather strap embedded in his neck was a constant source of agony—and the wretched punk, twisted in the nightmarish pain of slow, tortuous death, found the crushing torment in his windpipe less painful than the tearing, rending pain in his colon as his cruel, evil killer fucked him swiftly and brutally.

Zach’s black Nike kicks were twitching in the air behind the Trucker’s head; his current helpless position rendering them impotent as weapons. As his bloodshot eyes bulged grotesquely, forced from their orbits by the pressure building inexorably inside his skull, he could just barely make out the crimson trademarked swoosh jerking and twitching in the distance.

Inches away, the Trucker admired the teen’s black face, swollen and distorted beyond measure. He found the adolescent slut’s suffering erotic and, determined to draw out the torture as long as possible, let a little slack into the leather strap around the young whore’s neck. Zack was allowed a single brief gasp of fresh oxygen to momentarily clear the death fog clouding his mind before his throat was clamped off again.

“You stupid cumsack,” the powerful alpha whispered into the ear of the dying teen, so close that the teenager writhed involuntarily with pleasure at the scrape of his killer’s scruff across his cheek, despite all the pain and horror. The screaming, pounding silence that was filling the empty spaces of his pathetic cumslut soul was not yet loud enough to drown out the cruel taunts of his killer.

“You made me do this,” the psycho strongman hissed at his helpless young victim. “You talked, you pansy-ass cunt. You did this. Does it hurt? Good! I want you to hurt. I want you to die in fuckin’ agony on my cock, you disgusting faggot. You wanted a prison fuck, you punk-ass bitch? Fuck, dude, you got death fuckin’ row! Now die, you fuckin’ homo meat; milk me and suck up my spunk like a sponge. Best thing anyone can do to yer worthless fuckmeat is use ya as a cumrag and throw ya in the dump like the fuckin’ garbage you are, motherfucker!”

With a snarl, he jerked his arm, making the thick leather strap squeeze the queerboy’s throat shut. Zach was sinking back into the stimulus-response phase of imminent death, but this time there would be no recovery. The quivering youth hadn’t been able to take much advantage of the brief respite he’d been given; his contorted position—bent double with his killer’s muscled bulk crushing him into the mattress—had made it difficult for the semi-conscious punk to suck air. He’d gasped and slobbered in panicked asphyxiation, but he hadn’t been able to get enough oxygen to stave off brain damage.

Zach had heard the Trucker and understood him, but just barely; the sadistic stud’s cruel taunts were the last words the brutalized teenager would hear in his life. As his brain died, the universe contracted into a cold darkness. Zach’s last five minutes of life slowed to a crawl. Rational though all but ceased; the suffering boy was sunk in a pit of sensation—of pain.

He was vaguely aware of the powerful alpha pressing down on him; he could still feel the hairy thrusting form on top of him. He could hear—without understanding what he was hearing—the deep, ragged breathing and strained grunts of the dude who was fucking him and killing him. A faint memory of start of the evening flickered like a guttering candle in the dying kid’s mind…the hot cop, the booze—even now, he still reeked of whiskey—the erotic click of the cuffs behind his back…

The last truly conscious emotion to pass through Zach’s mind a fleeting sense of despair, like the plaintive bleat of a slaughtered sheep. Then the physical took over and the teenaged faggot was submerged in a crimson wave of pain.

It hurt. The young punk’s smooth, slim body was wracked with agony, with an excruciating torture that shorted out his nervous system to the point that it was unable to discern pain from pleasure.

From inches away, the Trucker watched the face of the adolescent cumslut swell and darken. Blood still leaked from his mutilated ears and his cheek, but it was sluggish and too thick to flow much. Zach’s battered face was twisted into a grotesque, unrecognizable mask.

Wrapping the belt around his hand for greater control over the meat, the Trucker jerked the strap brutally, causing it to sink deeply into the boy’s neck. The gay bottom boy went rigid, his swollen purple lips parted by his protruding tongue, forced out on a lube of foamy drool that trickled down the teen’s smooth cheeks.

The indefatigable power top continued to plow the dying kid’s ass. Even as he murdered his victim, the timing of his thrusts wasn’t thrown off by a single thrust; his huge horse dick kept plunging deep into the meat’s fuckhole like it was being rammed by a piledriver.

It was getting a good workout, too. The Trucker was vaguely aware of the Nike basketball shoes flailing randomly in the air behind his head as he kept the cunt’s legs propped up on his shoulders, but the little fucker, his body pinned into position by his larger, stronger killer was convulsing violently on the inside.

The Trucker grunted with pleasure; he realized the stupid piece of shit must be suffering nightmarish intestinal cramps for the punk’s guts to polish his knob so vigorously. Zach’s own dick didn’t give the impression of pain; quite the opposite—it slapped, oozing and throbbing, between the two heaving, writhing male bodies, smearing precum over the teen’s flat smooth belly as well as the Trucker’s furry rippled abs.

The dogtags bounced off Zach’s flat, firm chest repeatedly before slipping off to the side where they occasionally added a faint jingle to the quiet, desperate sounds of sex and death.

Zach’s youth worked against him, prolonging his suffering until the oxygen had been completely wrung from his quivering body. In the end, even the physical started to fade. The teenaged faggot no longer felt the pain from his limbs, twisted agonizingly in their sockets. He couldn’t feel his eyes, bulging and rolled back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites showed under his fluttering lashes.

By a cruel neurological twist, though, he could still feel his rectum being savaged. The erratic electrochemical bursts in his dying brain conveyed nothing more than a long thick hard shaft viciously impaling his innards; there was nothing left to process the concept of rape, of a throbbing vein-wrapped cock plunged up his boycunt.

In a way, it was a shame. Zach was getting fucked exactly as he wanted; roughly, by an amazing muscled alpha who bound him and mounted him ruthlessly.

By the time the end came, Zach was past all sense of the irony of the where and how of his murder, past all fear—in a sense, past all pain.

The Trucker had a lot of experience of putting sluts down; he recognized the way the adolescent’s convulsions had lost their rhythmic tempo and slipped into spasms that were more intense but also more erratic.

Fuck, it felt wonderful. The silky flesh of the teen’s guts sliding over his engorged mushroom tip while the motherfucker’s colon gripped his shaft like a fist—the worthless squealing cumpig was finally learning his lesson. He was getting exactly what he deserved, the disgusting piece of homo shit.

The Trucker could feel the sperm boiling in his balls. He was close; he just needed one last thing—he needed to know that the firm, smooth, slender teen had truly died on his cock.

One last brutal yank on the thick leather belt and the sociopathic sadist was rewarded. The young kid’s esophagus collapsed with a loud cracking that was instantly followed by an even more intense and erotic snapping sound, like the splintering of green wood. With a single powerful movement, the Trucker had crushed Zach’s windpipe and broken his neck.

The very last thing Zach experienced in his useless cumslut life before the searing electrical blast of bone shards slicing into his spinal cord sent him into screaming cold eternity was an eruption of searing heat in his groin. In an instant, his existence shrank to the white-hot wire of pain/pleasure that ran along the underside of his cock; almost immediately, a similar agonizingly hot feeling, akin to molten lead, was pumped into his ass and up his guts, a last scorching sensation of heat as he slipped into frigid dark death.

The Trucker spent the next minute shuddering and spunking, filling the dead teen cunt with his sperm. As his hulking muscled body jerked and shuddered in violent orgasm, he was vaguely aware of the teen’s thick, ropy cum splashing across his broad, hairy chest. The hormone-laden adolescent was so full of semen that his corpse spewed a steady stream of pearly jizz for at least thirty seconds straight, catching both shuddering, sweating male bodies in a rain of glistening spooge.

Long after he’d emptied his balls of seed, the Trucker found himself still fucking and cursing at the convulsing sack of boymeat. Regaining a measure of control, he took a deep breath and pulled his still-pulsing cock out of the corpse. Getting quickly off the bed, he let Zach’s legs flop back, spread wide, one landing on the bed. The other leg hung off the side, the Nike hightop just barely touching the floor. As the body twitched, the expensive kick scuffed a ragged furrow in the thin cheap carpeting.

The Trucker felt a little rubbery after his explosive release of anger and semen; he staggered back to the dresser for his smokes, finding the pack undamaged from the earlier violence but surrounded by glass. Lighting up a Red, he turned back and admired the gruesome scene.

Zach was still trembling; erratic spasms rippled the muscles under his smooth, sperm-glazed flesh. Above the splayed legs, the teen’s long dick was still semi-erect, a faint trickle of pearly ooze leaking from the head onto his flat belly. A pool of cum was congealing in the shallow smooth valley between the slight mounds of the youth’s pectorals. The arms, of course, were still twisted behind the corpse’s back.

Taking another drag on his cigarette, the Trucker vaguely wondered if keys to official law enforcement handcuffs were universal across states or agencies or some other way. If not, the coroner was gonna have a fun time; the keys had gone out the cab window somewhere on the other side of the state line.

Above the chest, things got ugly. The thick leather belt was sunk so deeply into the boy’s throat that the Trucker had no intention of trying to retrieve it—something else for the coroner to enjoy. And above that, the face was still swollen and congested with blood; the lividity would slowly drain away but that process had not yet begun. As a result, Zach’s face bore no trace of his usual expression of slack-jawed adolescent lust. Instead, it spoke eloquently of the torture the kid had endured, the agonizing pain and nightmarish terror in which the teenager had died.

The rolled-back eyes gave a blank white stare while the tongue, livid and swollen, still protruded from between blue lips. The punk’s smooth cheeks were streaked with drool, snot and blood, but none of the wounds were bleeding anymore; even his mangled ears had stopped seeping. At least one wasn’t; the other was hidden by the youth’s ponytail coiled beside it.

Even the room attested to the horrific violence of the teen’s murder. The broken lamp and the shattered whiskey bottle—still adding its heady scent to the musky, smoky atmosphere of the room—were just the start of the physical destruction; the Trucker had deliberately targeted his violence towards the parts of the room he’d destroyed on his earlier visit.

After all, that was why he’d placed his clothes in the dresser drawer. This time, they wouldn’t be covered with glass.

The buff older man picked his way across the debris-strewn floor and got the bag containing his clothes. Snatching his pack of smokes as well, he crossed to the bathroom. Soaking a hand towel in warm water, he wiped the dead teen fag’s spunk out of his body fur. Wadding the towel up, he tossed it into the toilet before sitting down, pulling off the knee-high boots and stripping himself from the beige chinos trousers. Just for the fuck of it, he rolled the latter into a ball and dropped it in the toilet as well, first fishing the diamond-chip studs out of the pocket.

It took just a minute to wriggle back into his familiar tight jeans and snug cotton t-shirt; it took even less to slip the trucker cap back onto his tousled black locks, slick with sweat. Since his tube socks had never come off, he simply stepped into his scuffed work boots and left them loosely laced and untied. He pocketed the studs, picked up his bag and the cop’s boots and walked out of the bathroom.

Approaching the bed, he decided to add one bit of artifice to the naturally-posed scene. He left the still-trembling corpse with one boot placed upright on the face and one on the groin. He had no doubt they’d topple and perhaps dislodge before the body was found, but it didn’t matter.

It was dark and still outside. The Trucker moved slowly along the pavement to the edge of the property, where he could walk along the edge of the blacktop. That way, his boots wouldn’t thump with each footfall until he reached the street. Not that there was anyone watching, of course, but avoiding attention immediately after a snuff was innate to the experienced sexual sadist by now; it was how he avoided capture for so long. But loose ends like that little piece of shit needed to get what they deserved—which was sliding down the Trucker’s cock into their graves.

The muscled hardman grinned coldly. He started whistling as he strode back to his rig.

The wind had died down a little but was still brisk. It had gotten colder and a heavy mist, just short of being rain, was obscuring the quiet streets. The Trucker had left the stripper’s apartment hot and hard, still flush with the excitement of the kill, but the raw chill in the air soon sapped both his physical and his emotional heat. Everything was quiet and dim as he walked back to his rented room.

The haze got appreciably thicker the closer he got to the hotel, which was why the Trucker didn’t notice the boy until he was within five feet of him. The hulking stud had just passed the gay bar (now closed for the night) and rounded the corner, the firm tread of his thick-soled boots muffled in the chill dank mist. Stepping into the glowing orange ball of fog surrounding a streetlight, he noticed a dark shape just beyond.

As he approached it, its features resolved into those of a young man. Despite the thick, distorting atmosphere of the incoming cold front, it was obvious right away that the youth was on the make. No one who wasn’t selling his body would be out at this hour dressed like that—little whore must be freezing, the Trucker mused.

Tempting as it was, he was no longer in the mood. Ignoring the street slut, he plodded on through the murk.

“Hey, dude, wanna play?” It was a hoarse whisper from off to the side. The Trucker paused, then turned and spoke to the kid.

“Whassa matter, man,” the cheap hustler jeered, “that high-priced cocksucker you picked up in the bar take all your money?”

The Trucker froze. “What?” he snapped, glaring at the youth.

“Y’know,” the kid drawled. “Randy. Stripper at the Cowboy Lounge back there. Sure, I know him, I’m from around here—and I know what he charges, fuckin’ whore. Anyways, I seen ya goin’ up to his place.”

As the Trucker processed this information, the boywhore continued to throw shade on his rival. “Dude, I’m better than that fuckin’ cunt ever could be, and I’ll do it for less money. Bet he didn’t even drain all yer load…”

This, the muscular killer realized, was bad. He’d never realized there was a witness—was he slipping? It had been in the backyard of that house, the garage apartment—where had this kid been hiding?

Whatever the case was, the Trucker realized he needed to take care of this motherfucker quickly.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said curtly. “He wasn’t a good fuck. Didn’t get me off. Think you can?”

“Ok, cunt, prove it,” the Trucker said in a level voice. “C’mon, I gotta room a couple blocks over.”

The whore’s slim shape trailed in the mist behind him as the hard-bodied alpha made his way back to the motel. His room was on the ground floor; his key allowed them entry through a side door, bypassing the lobby. It wasn’t until they were in the room, with the door locked behind them, that the Trucker got his first good look at the street hustler.

The boy was just under six feet tall and looked no older than twenty. His hair was long on the top, swept forward, and cut very short on the sides and back. The longer part on top was frosted an almost strident strawberry blond that didn’t match the dark, shaved hair on the lower areas. His green, almond-shaped eyes glittered with the cold greed of the hardcore prostitute. His high cheekbones added a kind of calculating felinity to his expression.

He was wearing what appeared to be a simple unlined denim jacket over a slim-fit t-shirt that emphasized his chest by comparison to his slender waist. His tight jeans were the same pale, faded blue as his jacket, but they were considerably more revealing. Not because they clung like a second skin to his long, firm legs—which they did—but because of the ragged slashes deliberately cut across the thighs.

With every movement, the material parted, giving a tantalizing glimpse of the smooth pale flesh on the hustler’s inner thigh, an alluring inducement to spending money in order to possess his lithe young body for a few minutes—or a few hours. The Trucker wasn’t impressed—he’d seen better.

He’d snuffed better.

The whore stood defiantly, staring at the incredibly well-built stranger he’d accosted. His arms were crossed and his black and white Nike Air Jordan 5s were planted far apart on the thin, threadbare carpet. “So,” he drawled, “what up, dude? You gonna whip yer cock out or what?”

The Trucker grinned easily. This little cunt wasn’t worth his time, but he wasn’t about to take a chance. “Sure,” he said, slipping his leather jacket off, “but I wanna see yours, too. Strip your shirt off, man, and haul your dick out. I like to see what I’m payin’ for.”

The hustler paused, then smiled. “Ok, stud, whatever ya want. I’m Cody, by the way. Gonna put my stuff over here, K?” He turned towards the desk/dresser as he shrugged off the denim jacket. As he laid it across the desk, the Trucker couldn’t help but notice that the rear of the homo slut’s jeans had been cut as well, sliced under the seat and ripped to show the cunt’s bubble butt, his asscheeks slightly shadowed with soft, sandy peachfuzz.

The Trucker grasped his own shirt, pulling the thermal up off his massively-muscled chest. The dogtags he wore were caught in the olive-green fabric; when they finally pulled free, they jingled as they fell back and bounced off the alpha’s broad pecs. The whore didn’t notice; he kept his back to the Trucker as he slipped off the black slim t-shirt. He evidently thought the Trucker was still undressing when he slipped a small glass item out of his pocket and slipped it into the folds of the shirt.

The experienced alpha knew a meth pipe when he saw one. His grin grew broader and more shark-like. No one was gonna come lookin’ for a faggot meth-head whore. He approached the cunt silently.

He could waste the witness and no one would care.

When Cody turned back to face his john, he was stripped to the waist, the dim lighting giving his lean torso a soft and almost sultry focus. His firmly-packed jeans still clung to his legs, his Air Jordans were still tightly laced on his feet with the tongues outside the hem of the jeans. Like a good whore, he’d complied with his trick’s orders and opened his fly. He’d worn no belt, so he’d left the button fastened at the waist, but beneath that his long dark cock jutted from an exuberant tangle of brunette pubes.

He whirled around to gasp involuntarily at the powerfully-built stud looming over him. This close, he could see the hard, chiseled angles of the Trucker’s scruffy face—and the sharp, steely light of a predator shining coldly and cruelly from his ice-blue eyes. Cody wasn’t naïve; as the heady, pungent reek of manscent filed his nostrils, he was alert to all the warning signs.

Still, the blow was so swift, he never saw it coming. There was a concussive blast of pain in his face accompanied by a dull, thudding smack, like a sledgehammer striking a side of beef.

Dazed, Cody blinked and wondered why he was on his knees; he didn’t remember stumbling back and falling under the impact of the sucker-punch. The stunned boywhore reached up and poked gingerly at his bruised, swelling cheek. His green eyes, wide with shock, turned up to the scowling face of his john.

Swiftly, the Trucker bent down and grabbed a fistful of the slut’s hair—the long dyed hair on the top of the boy’s head offering an excellent handhold. “So ya saw me tonight, huh?” he snarled, his face twisted with cold rage. “I’m gonna make damn sure you don’t see anything else, cunt.”

Cody gasped and tried to block the blow. He was too slow—the Trucker popped him hard on the jaw, driving the slim youth back into the desk and knocking over the chair.

The groggy youth struggled back up to his knees. He was breathing deeply, almost sobbing as he tried to understand what was happening. His rattled, drug-fogged brain found nothing in the muscled stud’s words to cling to; they made no sense.

“Wha—“ he started, then stopped cold. Kneeling, his eyes were crotch-level to the Trucker, and for the first time, he noticed the alpha’s thick, swinging dick. Even limp, it was more than seven inches, glistening and wreathed in dark veins. Bursting out of a black bristling mass of pubic hair, the Trucker’s cock recalled every clichéd snake and python metaphor Cody had ever heard.

And just as snakes reputedly hypnotize their prey, the young street whore found himself mesmerized by the massive tube of flesh. It was several seconds before jagged darts of pain began to push their way through Cody’s consciousness, forcing him to tear his tunnel vision away from that frighteningly huge tool and focus on his imminent danger.

“D-dude,” he stammered, “I-I didn’t see nothin’—“

The Trucker lunged. The half-dressed whore squealed in shrill terror and tried to cower under the desk. It was a futile gesture; the older, stronger alpha had no difficulty dragging the whimpering youth from his inadequate hiding place.

Cody was slim, but not scrawny. The hard life of a street whore had had multiple impacts on his body; he damn sure didn’t work out, but he had developed some muscles.

Even so, when the Trucker’s huge hands clamped onto the kid’s upper arms and lifted him into the air, they completely encircled the slut’s biceps with the inexorable strength of iron fetters.

The gasping rentboy started mewling in pain as he was lifted; the hulking sadist had squeezed the boy’s arms in slightly before using them to raise him straight up. His entire body weight was being supported by his shoulder joints—it was excruciating. Blubbering and sniveling, the helpless young slut kicked his Nikes pointlessly six inches off the floor.

The Trucker brought the shuddering kid closer to his face. “You didn’t see anything?” he hissed.

The terrified punk couldn’t speak; wide-eyed, he shook his head desperately. He was starting to sweat in fear and the long dyed hair on his head was dark with perspiration as the rapid motion of his head made it flutter.

Still glowering with a brutal rage, the Trucker spat into the boy’s face, then shook him violently. “So what were ya sayin’ to me when you hit me up, cunt? Huh? Answer me, you worthless sack of shit!”

“Look at me, whore,” the Trucker said with a tone of cold command. “Look me in the face.”

The trembling hustler obeyed the hard ring of domination in his assailant’s voice. As his eyes rose, his field of vision was filled first with the Trucker’s hulking, muscled chest, sweat matting the wiry fur. With each breath the strapping alpha took, the dogtags lying on the dark curls of hair shifted and glinted in the light.

Rising higher, his gaze swept up the dude’s thick neck, the tendons showing some of the strain from the effort of keeping him aloft. Above that was the guy’s face…

Cody hadn’t seen it clearly this close. The strong jaw and firm lips, circled by a black goatee just slightly longer than the scruff darkening the sculpted cheeks entranced him, but the blue eyes, cold and glittering as ice, held his attention intently.

Then the Trucker spoke—harshly and gleefully.

“Yer little pal Randy? He’s dead. I fucked him and snuffed him. He died squealing in pain and fear like the little faggot pig he was.”

He smiled broadly at the gaping youth and spat in his face again.

“So ya saw me with that useless homo, huh? And now he’s dead. So, whaddaya think I gotta do to you, queerboy?”

And with that, he dropped Cody.

The street whore fell in a crumpled mound of flesh and denim with his legs curled under him, only the black-and-white Air Jordans showing under his huddled body. Curled into a fetal ball, the weeping boy tried to understand what was happening.

After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t experienced danger in past. He was a back-alley whore and drug addict; he’d been beaten, he’d been robbed, he’d even been raped. And each time he’d gotten smarter and stronger. He’d been selling his body for cash and drugs for more than five years; now, at the age of twenty-one, he thought of himself as street-smart, able to spot the red flags and handle himself.

The Trucker nudged the scared youth with his foot, poking the toe of his boot into the boy’s ribs. “C’mon, cunt, look up here at me. Up here, bitch.”

Unwillingly, Cody lifted his head and peered at the towering stud through eyelids swollen with tears. The Trucker stood over him, legs spread and hands on his hips, sneering down with anger and contempt—and that was when Cody saw something that froze his blood.

The muscled alpha’s cock wasn’t limp anymore. It wasn’t fully erect yet, but it was swelling and darkening. As Cody watched in horror, it started to throb visibly. He knew why.

This buff, strapping older dude was getting hard at the thought of offin’ him. It was the only answer.

As this awareness percolated through his soft, drugged brain, it sparked a deep, feral panic in the heart of the cheap rentboy. Self-preservation kicked in and, with help from his innate arrogance, overcame his cowardice. The cowed youth rose up in defiance.

It was the worst choice of his short, wasted life.

Curling his legs under him, Cody felt his tight Air Jordans gain traction on the thin carpet as he propelled himself upwards, his smooth, lithe body tensed in stress and effort.

The Trucker was ready for the whore, naturally. He’d seen and recognized the gleam of desperation in the hustler’s eyes and was expecting a panicked lunge. As the kid popped up, the brawny top swung his powerful arm and backhanded the punk in the face.

Cody’s rebellion came crashing to the ground as his wiry young body slammed into the dresser. The slut dropped back to the floor like a sack of potatoes, frantically gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him. Clawing his way back to vertical, he threw up his arms to block the Trucker’s lunge.

It was useless. The older, stronger man knocked the hustler’s arms away and wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat. He squeezed and lifted, raising the slim youth into the air once again.

Cody clutched at the vise-like grip on his neck, instinctively and ineffectually trying to pry the Trucker’s fingers free. His hightops kicked and flailed in pain and panic as his esophagus collapsed under the weight of his entire body, dangling from the alpha’s steel-like grip.

The sadistic strongman spat a thick wad of phlegm into the boy’s darkening face. He grinned in a rage that scintillated with psychotic glee as the struggling youth clawed desperately at his wrists. “Shoulda kept yer eyes shut, huh, you worthless cumsuckin’ faggot?” he sneered. “Now I gotta waste ya. And since I gotta do it anyway, I might as well enjoy myself, right, cunt? Yeah?”

Squeezing his massive paws more tightly around the slut’s throat, he drew the jerking youth in closer to him. “Y’wanna know what I enjoy?” he hissed, his breath hot and malevolent on Cody’s swelling face. “I enjoy hurting fags. I like snuffing homo cunts. Get it, cocksucker? The more you suffer, the more I like it.”

Shaking the lean, shuddering form violently, the Trucker laughed aloud, a cold, harsh sound that was somehow more intimidating that his overt anger had been. As Cody felt his body flop limply in the air, helpless in the top’s powerful, bulging arms, he could also feel the truth of the stud’s claims.

Every time his smooth torso and strong but slender legs swung in towards the dominant killer’s body, some part of him made contact with the dude’s huge, hot cock. The massive spear of flesh was fully erect by now and Cody realized that it had been getting progressively harder as the psycho dude had been beating him. As the hard, spade-shaped head impacted the punk’s soft, creamy flesh, it left a smear of clear, slimy precum.

The crazy motherfucker wasn’t lyin’—he really did get off on inflicting pain.

The Trucker looked the terrified rentboy directly in the eyes as he spoke. “Tonight ain’t just gonna be the last night of your short life, you unlucky sack of shit—it’s gonna be the worst. And it’s gonna be worse than you can possibly imagine, you disgusting pansy-ass fairy!”

With that, he turned abruptly and hurled the young hustler into the chair and the small round table on the far side of the room, across from the bed. With a loud crash, the whore’s limp form knocked the furniture aside like bowling pins. Cody, as a result, impacted several hard objects before his battered and bruised body came to rest on the filthy thin carpet.

The young whore twisted and writhed in agony. He wasn’t mentally capable of understanding the details of the situation; his meth-tweaked awareness was swamped with torment and fear. He was only vaguely aware of the vibrations of the Trucker’s heavy tread that signaled his approach.

He became immediately much more aware of the cruel muscleman’s presence when the Trucker swung his heavy steel-toed engineer boot back and delivered a brutal kick directly to the slut’s vulnerable torso.

Cody writhed and convulsed as the devastating blow from the alpha’s thick black boot shattered two of his ribs, sending razor-sharp fragments of bone to rip through the youth’s internal organs. The whore squealed in horrific agony as his spleen, stomach and left lung were peppered as if by shrapnel. Reflexively, he rolled onto his right side in an involuntary attempt to escape from the source of pain.

The Trucker raised his leg and paused. Flinching, Cody hesitated, then peered up at the thick sole of the boot hanging directly over his face. It was all the vicious older stud had been waiting for. Tensing the huge muscles in his bulging, denim-wrapped thigh, he stomped on the cheap slut’s head as hard as he could, driving his booted foot down and feeling it grind squelchingly into the wailing punk’s vulnerable, unprepared face.

The sharp, deep tread of the thick rubber sole tore at Cody’s skin as his nose collapsed with a sickening crunch; the tread pattern was pounded so hard into his cheek that it was clearly visible in the bruises.

The Trucker drew his leg up again. For a brief moment, the traumatized whore had a glimpse of his attacker looming over him, about to inflict more pain. The well-built stud seemed more domineering than ever as he snarled down at the pain-wracked boy, his lips curled in disgust. His broad, hairy chest, shiny with sweat, expanded with each effort-borne grunt torn from the killer by the exertions of his thick muscles.

Again, the boot hung over Cody’s face. The rentboy made a half-hearted motion to dodge it, but the alpha dropped his foot with the speed and force of an industrial piston, catching the slut full on the mouth.

This time, the crunching sound was louder. This time, his black leather boot did much more damage. And this time, he was rewarded with a loud gurgling shriek as Cody’s lower jaw snapped in three places.

The young hustler rolled violently on the floor, squealing and mewling in wordless agony with his arms wrapped about his head. His flailing Nikes scraped furrows in the thin carpet. Sweat beaded on his smooth flat abdomen as he rode vast waves of pain and terror.

Some part of his cold and calculating street whore mentality was still functional; it had noted that the brutal stud had paused the attack. Lighting a smoke from the pack on the bedside table, the buff sadist was sitting on the bed and admiring his work. As he fondled his dogtags idly with one hand, his thick cock jutted like a prow from his crotch, angry and dripping in anticipation.

If Cody had a chance to escape, this was it; this was the longest and the farthest he’d been out of his assailant’s reach. But escape was no longer an option for him. Not only had his body been stomped and crushed, his mind had been beaten as well. His street-smart but drugged brain was unable to wrap itself around the events of the last half-hour.

What was happening? He’d followed this hot john back to his room. He was gonna earn a little money, drain the dude’s balls down his throat, take his forty bucks (and whatever else he could get without being noticed) and go hit up his dealer. Now—

But he couldn’t complete the thought. As his nervous system handled the unspeakable torment by going into physical shock, his psyche did much the same thing, blocking his panicked thoughts from reaching the logical conclusion.

Cody shut down, physically and mentally. He curled into a ball again, sobbing and wailing, thrashing about in pain as drool leaked from his twisted, misshapen mouth. The Trucker watched him intently, deeply enjoying the youth’s nightmarish suffering. He honestly hadn’t expected to get hard again tonight—after all, that last homo fucker had been a real workout—but damn if this smooth hot little faggot didn’t make his junk all stiff. And, as he’d said, he needed to make the cumsucking shitsack witness into meat anyway—might as well get his money’s worth, so to speak.

Leaving his butt to smolder in the ashtray, the Trucker rose and crossed swiftly to the shuddering ball of misery making him so unexpectedly horny. Swooping down, he snagged a handful of long blond hair and jerked the sniveling youth upright before pulling him excruciatingly to his feet the same way. The punk shrieked and quickly found his feet, standing up voluntarily to avoid having his scalp ripped open.

But the Trucker didn’t want him on his feet, he wanted him on the bed. Still grasping a fistful of hair, the older, stronger man tightly gripped the lower half of the boy’s face. With cruel and deliberate sadism, he squeezed viciously, feeling the jagged edges of broken bone grinding together in horrific torture under his relentless handhold.

The punk’s eyes rolled back in his head as the pain exceeded his toleration and he trembled on the edge of consciousness. His eyelashes fluttered as his body twitched limply against the killer’s hard, sculpted mass. With a swift, graceful twist, reminiscent of a master martial arts move, the Trucker flipped the slim, smooth cunt in an arc that spun him in the air before slamming him down onto the bed.

Cody found himself surfacing in a searing pool of sharp anguish. His breath was coming in jagged, painful gasps. He had no way of knowing that the splintered remains of his broken ribs had torn his left lung so badly that it was collapsing. Added to the constriction of his airway caused by his crushed nose and broken jaw, the young hustler quickly learned that the only thing more terrifying than the prospect of being beaten to death was that of suffocation.

He croaked and gurgled, clawing frantically at his face and throat. Each time he pawed uncontrollably at his jaw in a desperate attempt to improve his respiration, he suffered unbearable agony, but the fight for survival took precedence over the mere physical torture.

The Trucker watched in malevolent, erotic joy. Grinning, he approached the bed, his powerful, towering form imposing itself between Cody and the light, casting a huge dark shadow of doom over handsome, unlucky punk. Even in his hypoxic panic, the cheap drugged-out cunt was aware of the hard, cold killer.

As the alpha reached the bed, his erect shaft swam into Cody’s field of vision. Blurred as it was, it could still make out the dark purple mushroom-like head, visibly pulsing, each throb forcing a trickle of clear precum out to stream down from the tip like string of spit. Soon the Trucker was close enough that his eager ooze was splattering on the whore’s smooth, silky skin like hot candle wax.

The ice-cold, cruel killer looked down at his victim and gave the stunned and bewildered youth a smile so charming and charismatic that even in the depths of his wretched distress, the hardened street fag felt himself drawn in. For a split second of soft-focus blur induced by oxygen deprivation, Cody felt himself not only forgiving his attacker for the pain he’d endured, but also falling in love with him.

Then the Trucker spoke.

“Time to die, motherfucker. Time to take you out, you worthless cumdump. Before I do, though, think I’m gonna unload in ya. Might as well, since yer gonna get dumped in the garbage like soiled, cum-soaked underwear when I’m done with ya. Ain’t like anyone’s gonna care, not about you or your friend—you know, wassisname, the one I offed earlier. Heh, wonder if the disgusting cumpig has gotten stiff yet.”

An evil light of sadistic viciousness sparkled sharply in the Trucker’s blue eyes as he leaned down and whispered to the helpless, frightened, desperate young hustler. The well-used assfuck whore stretched his battered face into a silent plea for mercy from the stronger, older, more powerful man who now held his future existence in his rough, callused hands.

Mercy had never been on the table.

Sitting on the bed and spreading his thick, powerful legs, the Trucker snatched a handful of hair and Cody found himself being jerked roughly forward by his scalp yet again. Still using the better part of his strength just to remain conscious, the youthful slut found his face being used as a towel as the Trucker dragged his bruised and tender cheeks over his strongman’s massive pectorals, the alpha’s wiry, curly chest hair scraping the kid’s damaged cheeks like steel wool.

The punk’s face stung and burned as the stud’s salty sweat was rubbed into his open cuts; the sharp edges of the dogtags inflicted new slashes for the Trucker’s reeking perspiration to burn. The muscled alpha dragged the boy’s torn face back and forth across his chest several times before pulling his head back up.

“Lookitya, you stinking, disgusting pansy motherfucker. Time to die like a disgusting faggot worm. So ya like tellin’ folks what ya seen, huh? Ya like openin’ yer big fat fag mouth, huh? Good, cunt. Open it now. Open it and choke, you cocksucking piece a’ shit!”

The Trucker forced Cody’s head down onto his erect shaft, locking his arms into place behind his back with a single hand, strong as a steel bar.

The huge, oozing rod plunged deep into the whore’s esophagus; the large, spongy spear-shaped tip plugging his windpipe with brutal effectiveness. And that was when the ultimate twist of nightmare came into play—with his jaw broken, Cody couldn’t close his mouth.

He couldn’t bite down. And he wasn’t even remotely strong enough to break free from the powerful sadist’s grip.

He couldn’t breathe. He was choking to death on the dude’s cock.

Instantly, a white-hot sheet of panic inflamed his mind. Slim but strong, the lithe street punk didn’t just struggle, he fought for his life like a feral cat. He kicked and clawed frantically, managing to work his right hand free.

Then he made another bad mistake. Curling his fingers into claws, he flailed his hand until it found purchase in the killer’s curly fur and yanked out a few hairs.

Grunting more in anger than in pain, the Trucker knocked the offending hand away. “You stupid asswipe,” he hissed, “So you like pain, huh? Motherfuck, I’m gonna make sure you get plenty!” Glancing around in a blood-tinted rage, the furious savage killer spied a ball-point pen on the nightstand; a cheap promotional giveaway with the motel’s name and address printed on it.

In a towering paroxysm of wrath, he snatched up the pen and, wielding it like a knife, stabbed it through the hustler’s back and into his right kidney. It was blunt; it took a great deal of effort to drive the dull tip through the multiple layers of flesh and muscle until it reached the organ.

It took time, too. It wasn’t quick. And as the hard plastic was punched through his helpless, splayed body, Cody gagged and foamed on the huge throbbing tool plugging his throat. The tortured youth was making thick desperate gurgling sounds that didn’t sound human as his straining, tormented body responded to the intense trauma by flooding his bloodstream with hormones.

Cody writhed in the Trucker’s lap, his smooth back wet and glistening with a cold film of sweat stinking of adrenaline and testosterone. His slim, firm legs, still tightly wrapped in his skinny jeans, thrashed violently on the bed, his hightops catching at the sheets.

The Trucker left the pen in the boy’s back as he forced the cunt’s head down on his dick. He didn’t force it all the way down, though. The cunt had just enough space in his throat to suck down a minimal amount of oxygenated air before vomiting it back up in a frothy mass of drool.

“Goddam ass-lickin’ queer!” the powerful alpha grunted. “Take it, homo, or I’ll stick ya again—and this time I’ll make it hurt. You kick too much, bitch, and I’m fuckin’ sick of it. I’m gonna make sure this goes nice and smooth. Your fuckmeat friend took a lot outta me—drained my balls as he died in screaming agony. Ain’t gonna fight with you, you cheap faggot whore; you ain’t worth it. He was better lookin’ and a better fuck, dickbag. Lessee now, what’s a good way to teach you what happens to fuckin’ fag garbage that don’t know its place?”

It was probably for the best that Cody was incapable of seeing the Trucker’s face’ the expression alone would have made him lose control of his bowels.

“I got it, dude. Pigs don’t fly, fuckwad. I’ll clip your wings.”

The Trucker had such complete control over the weeping boywhore that by putting his elbow on the back of the slut’s head, he was able to keep his engorged shaft jammed down the shuddering boy’s throat. With both hands free, he was easily able to bend the kid’s left arm up. Gripping the arm just below the elbow with one hand and the wrist with the other, he applied pressure.

It really didn’t take too much before he was rewarded with a loud double cracking sound as both the radius and the ulna snapped like toothpicks under his bulging biceps. The unfortunate hustler convulsed in agony, his mind a blank sheet of flaming pain.

Next, the Trucker brought up the boy’s right arm. He stroked the pale, silky-smooth skin for a moment before brutally breaking that arm as well. This one didn’t go as well—at least not for Cody. The bones shattered into a greenstick fracture, tearing through the skin.

For the next few minutes, Cody ceased to exist. It was too much. The tough, street-smart, fucked-out boywhore who prided himself on being able to take anything his johns imposed on him, sank into a sea of pain. The kaleidoscopic colors danced in his nightmare of torture and trauma, red and white—and then, finally, black…a dark, cold, fiery, silent, screaming darkness…

The Trucker wrapped his hands in the long dyed strands of the punk’s hair, raising his head up just enough so that the kid didn’t pass out with the shaft plugging his throat. The vicious killer wasn’t done with Cody—yet.

He was close, though. Real close.

He hadn’t thought he’d be able to blow another load tonight; the last few days had been—energetic. Or was the word dynamic?

He paused to consider the best adjective to describe his brutal, manic killing spree as the battered and broken youth quivered in unconscious agony.

“Hhhuuunnnhhh…” Cody groaned as the pinpricks of awareness slowly intensified into excruciating pain. The Trucker’s evil smirk grew wider as he felt the whore’s smooth, slim body writhe and struggle in his lap with returning consciousness. “That’s it, cunt,” he whispered, “come back to me. Almost over now. Work for it, bitch, work for my load.”

Slowly, he began to force Cody back down, impaling his head a fraction of an inch at a time. The mangled rentboy was utterly enmeshed in an electric net of pain as his nervous system tried to process his physical agony, but (unfortunately) the nerves still functioned—all of them. He could feel the massive throbbing head of the alpha’s cock slip down his esophagus on a slick film of drool and precum. Each tiny motion of his head downward sent a fresh slash of fiery torture from his shattered jaw.

“Does it hurt, motherfucker?” the Trucker hissed quietly. “Toldja ya shoulda kept yer mouth shut—now ya can’t, huh? So you’re gonna take my dick all the way down, dude. All the way down into Hell. Here’s a protip, bitch—the sooner you make me cum, the sooner I’ll end it. Remember that, when it gets too intense for ya, you useless faggot. Milk me and I’ll end your pain forever.”

Cody understood what was happening; the mind-bending agony would have told him he was gonna die even had the muscle-bound killer’s taunts not laid out his immediate future with cruel glee.

He knew he was gonna die but he didn’t know why. And by now, it didn’t matter. The shuddering sack of meat that had been Cody was beyond the point of wondering about the motive for his murder.

The lean, sexy youth had started that evening using his streetwise skills to lure johns, trading his body for money and the money for drugs. Now his feral cunning was focused on surviving just a few more seconds.

Writhing in unspeakable agony, the punk gasped wetly as the thick pulsing shaft plugged his windpipe with excruciating slowness. Each panicked breath required more effort to draw—and more effort meant more pain wracking his helpless, half-nude body as the jagged edges of his broken bones tore new wounds inside him.

The dying hustler had no choice but to obey the powerful stud who was now controlling the last few seconds of his life. The Trucker’s enormous tool was fully inserted. Wiry pubic hair scraped the slut’s face like steel wool—a mangled face, mashed against the Trucker’s scrotum, increasing the cunt’s misery as the strapping alpha’s huge balls pressed relentlessly into his jaw, grinding the serrated ends of broken bones together.

Worst of all, though, was the pain of suffocation. A huge, pulsating tube of flesh completely filled his throat, the thick blood vessels wrapped around it acting as gaskets, utterly plugging the flow of air.

The red, slashing haze of agony that enveloped the kid was thicker than the fog outside—but it all stemmed from the enormous cock choking him. As the oxygen level in his blood dropped, he began to thrash, desperately seeking more air. The harder he jerked, the more his wounds opened. The pen that had been jammed into his kidney slashed its blunt tip through that organ while his broken arms flopped uselessly. Slow asphyxiation even increased the pain in his crushed nose as the cunt kept trying to fill his sinuses in a vacuum.

The only parts of him that still functioned were his legs, kicking and flailing violently as his Air Jordans snagged on the cheap sheets. The punk’s jerking sneakers tangled in the thin material, though, limiting their usefulness to the dying whore.

Actually, though, there were other parts of him that still worked. His brain was suffering progressive damage from hypoxia, but it was still able to process the input from his screaming nervous system. The quivering, dying boycunt was beyond all concepts of life and death and was now little more than meat responding to stimuli.

One piece of meat that was responding was his dick. He was face down on the bed, his head clamped immovably in the Trucker’s crotch. As his lean, lithe body shuddered during his drawn-out agony, it slid and slipped on the cold, rank sweat that was squeezed out of him in his death throes. His thin but long dick, pressed between the moist sheets and his equally slick, smooth belly, was being rubbed into an involuntary state of erection.

The more Cody kicked and died, the closer he got to cumming.

“Fuckin’-A, fag, die,” the Trucker grunted as his powerful muscles tightened with approaching orgasm. His entire body, glistening with mansex sweat, shuddered with pleasure, making his dogtags jump and jingle on his huge, furry chest. “C’mon, you worthless piece a’ shit, take my load and die on my dick. So close, cocksucker, so fuckin’ close to puttin’ yer lights out for good—FUCK!!!”

Cody’s brain had been starved of oxygen too long; it lost control of the voluntary nervous system. The maimed, damaged cunt convulsed frenetically, twisting his fractured arms into agonizing positions as his legs kicked uncontrollably. The sheet was still tangled around his sneakers; as his feet jerked violently, the thin, yellowed fabric failed under the strain and tore noisily.

It was his head, though, that was responsible for the Trucker’s outcry. It bobbed up and down as the helpless rentboy contorted in his death throes. The dying whore spent his last moments alive giving his killer involuntary head; it made the sadistic killer blow his load.

The unfortunate Cody had a last hint of what was happening as the final spark of life guttered out in his terror-wracked mind. It was a final nightmarish impression of drowning, not in water, but in lava…or maybe molten lead…a hot thick smoky liquid searing his lungs…

A white-hot bolt of excruciating electricity fired in his groin; the trembling hustler never knew that he’d shot his death load onto the stained mattress, the warm milky wad smearing between the scratchy fabric and his smooth, flat belly.

The corpse’s blackened face was all but invisible in the cruel top’s crotch. The rhythmic convulsions of a dying body were replaced with the random but intense twitching of a body already dead. Each time the boywhore jerked, thick pearly foam that was equal parts drool and spunk was forced past the swollen, blue lips, matting the Trucker’s pubic hair.

The Trucker gasped and shuddered, sending one last powerful jet of semen deep into the faggot whore’s lungs. The corpse was still quivering, mindless meat with no control, as the Trucker pulled the head up off his sticky, glazed shaft. Tossing the head away from him like the garbage it was, the Trucker reached over and grabbed another cigarette from the pack on the nightstand. He leaned back, admiring his own erect cock, still throbbing and oozing from the tip.

The dead whore slowly slid halfway off the bed, headfirst, landing with the dark, mangled, spunk-smeared face buried in the filthy carpet. Up on the bed, the cunt’s expensive kicks were still jerking as the corpse began the long process of cooling and stiffening.

The Trucker flicked his ash around randomly; he damn sure wasn’t gonna sleep here now. He was gonna jump in the shower and head back to his truck. He was still making plans as he ground out his smoldering butt in the small of the fag’s back, the dead skin sizzling and blackening as the cherry scorched it.

Heading into the bathroom, the Trucker had already decided what he needed to do next. He was tired, but he didn’t have any time to rest. He needed to put some distance between these dead homos and himself. Not that he regretted tonight; this last little fucker had taught him a valuable lesson about witnesses.

There was a loose end he needed to handle. He’d get clean, get out—and get that one fuck who could ID him.

=====================================================================

By the evening of the same day, the wind had picked up again, blowing the haze away. The night was clear but cold as Mark raced down the highway towards San Amadeo. The news of a double killing in the next state had electrified the profiler; he knew, just from the initial reports of the crimes, that it was the serial killer he was tracking.

As his government-issued Ford hurtled east, he devoutly wished he’d been able to reach Dan. These murders had stirred something deep within him. Viewing the bodies, he’d he been horrified—and aroused.

And the things he’d found on that trooper’s phone…

He hadn’t reported the texts—the photos—the videos, dear God, those videos—that he’d found stored on the dead cop’s phone. But as he watched them in his car, he’d felt his cock stiffen.

Mark was terrified. He didn’t know why these gruesome scenes of rape and murder got him hard. And Dan was on assignment, out of pocket. Dan could have talked him down.

Mark thought that phone sex with Dan was almost as good as the real thing—almost. It sure would have made him feel better about whatever the fuck he was feeling right now.

That wasn’t an option at the moment, though. And he couldn’t ask were Dan was. Both were so deep in the closet that no one at the FBI realized that either one was gay, much less that they fucked like rabbits whenever they got the chance.

So Mark was on his own, chasing a killer with more than just professional interest. He had personal questions, and this vicious serial killer might have the answers. He needed to find the dude before anyone else.

He put his foot on the floor. The Ford whined as it accelerated, speeding into the frigid night towards a murder scene.

Joe rolled over in bed, his hard, hairy body sluggish in sleep. The phone on the nightstand was beeping an alert. Instantly, he was awake—albeit reluctantly; less than eight hours ago he’d been engaged in vigorous physical activity. But this might be work. In his line, he didn’t have a regular schedule. He was always on call.

Sitting up, he glanced down at the phone and realized it wasn’t his. The details of last night came flooding back to him. The little daddy’s boy faggot he popped. This was that kid’s phone. He’d taken some good shots of the corpse but hadn’t sent them to daddy yet. He’d planned to do that once he got home, but he was so worn out, he’d fallen asleep before he got it done.

Of course, he might have had time to get the pics sent if he hadn’t played around on the cunt’s phone, posting a couple of ads on the fag sex apps the little homo had on his phone. Stupid piece of shit hadn’t even bothered with any passwords, either. Joe was free to post whatever he wanted under the dead kid’s login.

That was what was happening now. There’d been a response. The original post had been a generic “looking for sex” note giving nothing more than physical stats and neighborhood (one a good half-hour from Joe’s actual residence).

Despite Joe’s lack of rest, his dick slowly swelled and jutted as he read the reply.

“hey man i aint been with a dude but I wanna try just turned 18 cant do anything at home HMU if you wanna meet but its gotta be public I don’t want no pervs”

Joe tamped his hypersexual excitement down and sent back a response, asking about the boy’s appearance. The teen sent back a selfie, showing a broad, grinning face with a large nose, big brown eyes with long lashes and curly hair nearly the same shade of brown. Only the top of the kid’s torso was visible, but it showed a smooth chest, lean but broad.

The alpha suggested a meeting in the area he’d mentioned in the post, at a coffee bar he’d passed on occasion. The kid agreed to the location, but asked that they meet that evening.

It seemed that over the holiday break, his parents had enrolled him in a draconian vacation bible school. Any absence would be reported to them. Afterwards, however, he could sneak out…

Joe grunted in frustration. He wanted the tender young cunt now—but there was nothing he could do about it. Stifling his anger, he agreed to meet the boy at ten o’clock that night.

But the little bible-thumping cumsucker was gonna pay for making him wait. In the meantime, he eased the sadistic beast within him by sending SWAT daddy the pics of his raped and murdered son…

————————————————————————————————-

Joe was in the parking lot at half-past nine, scoping the place out and waiting for the kid to show up. He wanted to see how the teen arrived—if he came by car, if he came alone—anything to let him know if it was safe to continue with his plans. Based on the punk’s response, Joe expected him to be alone, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Laying the seat back, the buff alpha lit a cigarette as he waited. He cracked the window and exhaled the smoke, his thick black leather jacket letting him ignore the winter chill. The white thermal shirt stretched tightly across his broad chest helped insulate him as well, but he could feel the cool air descend over his legs. His black jeans were faded and worn, and skin-tight as they were, did little to keep out the cold.

He didn’t care. The heat welling angrily from his swollen crotch was enough.

He shifted his feet, his heavy leather engineer boots making scuffling sounds as the thick soles dragged on the floor mats. As his cigarette dwindled and he lit another, his impatience built. He’d fully expected the kid to show up at least a couple of minutes early, but it was just past ten now and the little piece of shit hadn’t shown up yet.

That didn’t bode well for the cunt’s immediate future.

Joe was just about to light yet another smoke when he saw the boy, walking quickly as he turned the corner from a side street. He was alone—stupid motherfucker, he was gonna regret that—and wore a gray fleece hoodie zipped up with the hood tightened around his head. Only his face was visible, with a few sandy locks on his forehead, but it was enough for Joe to recognize him.

He couldn’t see what the kid was wearing under the hoodie, but he had a taut pair of skinny jeans below, the pale brown material—almost the same color as his hair—cradling his rounded asscheeks. White, firmly-laced hightop sneakers completed his outfit.

Even from a distance, there was something in the kid’s face—or maybe it was something that wasn’t there…

He got out of the car, his black boots striding quickly across the asphalt as he intercepted the youth before he could get inside the crowded coffee shop. The odd impression of the boy’s face increased as he approached; after a moment, he recognized what he was noticing.

Innocence. The boy was sexually curious, but was utterly inexperienced in sex. The powerful sadist struggled to stifle an evil grin, but was unable to control the enlarging bulge in his groin. He was gonna enjoy destroying the unlucky kid. The punk had no idea what he was about to suffer.

“Hey,” he called out softly, “you’re late. Thought you were gonna be here at ten.”

The boy stopped and sized him up. The kid clearly liked what he saw. His jeans were just as incapable of hiding his erection as Joe’s were in his own case—two hard throbbing dicks visible as they looked at each other. Joe could see lust lighting the twink’s hazel eyes as they followed the contour of the older man’s thick hog, outlined in his crotch in tight denim.

The boy blinked. “Name’s Noah,” he gasped throatily before gulping nervously and holding out his hand.

Joe grinned easily. “I’m Trevor,” he replied. It didn’t matter if the punk new his real name or not, but Joe didn’t want anyone to overhear; there was a couple getting into a car a few feet away.

“Sorry I’m late,” Noah said sheepishly. “We were late getting back from bible study and it took my folks a while to get to sleep.”

“You had to sneak out?” Joe asked, careful to keep the contempt out of his voice.

“Yeah,” Noah admitted, blushing with embarrassment. “See, my folks are real strict and they’re real religious, too. I’m not allowed out alone after nine at night. And Dad takes the car keys with him when he goes to bed, so I had to walk. I mean, they don’t let me have a license, but I can drive.”

Joe chuckled silently to himself. “You couldn’t get a friend to give you a lift?”

Noah was horrorstruck. “Dude, all my friends are in the same church as me—they’d rat me out to my parents in a heartbeat! And if they knew I was meeting a strange man…” He broke off, the thought making him shudder. “Y’know, maybe I shouldn’t do this…”

Noah winced at the curse but seemed to consider the idea. Joe upped the ante. “Besides, I got a room at a motel halfway across town where nobody’s gonna know either of us.”

He had, too. It was a cheap, run-down place out on what had been the highway until the bypass was built. Now it was a rent-by-hour/day/week/month joint that served more as a flophouse to the locals. It was full of whores and drunks—but not, at least, bedbugs.

Before coming to the coffee bar, he’d driven there and given a tweaker forty bucks to rent a twenty-dollar room for the night. After, Joe pocketed the key, secure in the knowledge that the meth addict would take the change and get so wasted that within a couple of hours he’d be unable to remember who gave him cash for a room.

Noah hesitated, glancing uneasily through the window, as if making sure no one inside had recognized him. The kid was deep in the closet and scared as hell. Joe recognized the symptoms. He’d have to coax the little fuck gently, at least for a while. Once they got to the room, he’d have the cunt in his control.

The powerful alpha smiled charmingly at the skittish teen, his rugged, scruffy good looks adding irresistibly to the lure of his muscled body. Noah fought within himself, his fundamental Christian upbringing battling ferociously with his pure pig lust. The hormones pumping through his lithe teen body decided the issue.

The parking lot was empty by this time. No one saw the teen in the hoodie and the powerfully-built dude in leather and jeans get into the same car.

As his car headed north, then east through town, the buff sadist was surprised to feel the teen’s hand fumbling between his legs. The boy was anxious to fondle the older dude’s shaft. As Noah gripped the thick, denim-wrapped shaft, he inhaled shakily in lust and amazement; the strapping, mysterious stud was hung like a horse.

The naïve youth was enthralled; he had no actual experience with other men—not even in terms of porn; he’d had no unrestricted internet access. He had little with which he could compare the massive tube of flesh his hands were now massaging; only his own cock seemed adequate.

The latter was smaller, but not by much. Noah wasn’t unendowed himself; his own vein-wrapped tool was almost a good seven inches long and two in diameter. And while Noah hadn’t seen any porn, he’d seen his classmates in the locker room at his private religious school. He’d treasured up the images of smooth naked teen bodies for his beat-off sessions, but he’d also noticed that he was better hung than any of the other boys.

Now he’d met someone even bigger. And even though he knew it was not just disgusting and sinful but downright dangerous, he couldn’t help being drawn in, hoping to be introduced to dark, hidden pleasures he hadn’t dared to fully acknowledge, even to himself.

Joe was already aware of what was running through the boy’s mind; it really wasn’t that difficult to figure out. He reveled in anticipation of his control over the kid’s emotions as he lulled the religious youth into taking his cock before unleashing an explosion of violence.

Noah had been too preoccupied with dick to notice his surroundings, but he looked up as Joe pulled into the motel parking lot. He tightened the drawstring of his hoodie, craning his neck as he looked around concernedly. “Uh, Trevor?” he quavered, “uh, is this place ok?”

Noah’s cock was still erect and pulsing within the tight confines of his skinny jeans; he jumped out of the car, his white hightops padding along silently in the footprints of Joe’s thick black boots. The sadistic alpha had already switched on a light in the room by the time the kid reached the doorway.

The privileged, protected youth looked around at the rented squalor in despair. He’d only ever experienced squeaky-clean households and sanitized thoughts (except for those dark sinful ones that gave him wood).

The room was dim and hazy, still reeking of smoke. Not just cigarettes (he’d recognized that illicit scent on the mysterious stud and it made him start to ooze from his mushroom tip) but the sweet and unfamiliar scents of weed and crack. The rickety furniture was marked with dark lines—burns, actually, spots where cigarettes had burnt down and hot crack and meth pipes had been set down.

The dank, fetid air was being pushed lazily around by an ancient window AC unit that was not in a window but had been placed in a hole cut in the rear wall; it looked like garbage but the heat certainly worked—the room was over eighty degrees. The double bed had a cheap iron headboard and a thin polyester cover; the pillows, also thin, were covered with yellowed, stained linen.

But then he looked back at the bulging muscles of the handsome top and decided to shelve his objections. After all, he’d been right—no one Noah knew could possibly be in this neighborhood. The place was filthy, but so was the act. And the desire. Filthy, all of it.

And he wanted to be so fucking filthy…

“C’mon, boy, lessee what ya got,” Joe smirked as he rubbed the massive bulge in his groin. He leered suggestively at the innocent teen, knowing that the young faggot would have to respond.

He was right. Noah gulped again, his Adam’s apple slipping up and down his smooth neck. His hands shook as he reached for the zipper of his hoodie; they shook not in fear but in excitement. He slipped off the grey jacket, revealing a slate-gray long sleeve button-down shirt tucked into his beige skinny jeans.

At the same time, Joe took off his thick leather jacket, the clinging material of the white thermal shirt revealing the full breadth of his massive pectorals. The shirt was open at the neck, displaying a V-shaped wedge of dark wiry chest hair. Rolled up as they were, the sleeves did nothing to hide the alpha’s muscular, hairy forearms.

Joe stood over Noah and slipped off the shirt, his powerful torso glistening with sweat in the hazy light of the overheated room. The room wasn’t the only thing to get overheated; Noah found himself literally aching with desire as his eyes slid down the stud’s sculpted body, the lower half still wrapped in jeans.

Noah tried amateurishly to add a seductive strip-tease effect as he undressed, but his hands were trembling so much he had difficulty in getting the buttons of his shirt undone. Joe watched and smiled patiently as his rage flared inside at this delay in his gratification. He managed to control the desire to reach out and tear the shirt right off the bitch, buttons popping everywhere. And after all, why not? The kid was right where Joe wanted him…

But just then Noah managed to get the last button undone and slipped out of the shirt. A thin white cotton t-shirt was underneath. The boy smiled hesitantly, still uneasy, as he pulled it off over his head.

Underneath, his young teen body was smooth and slim but not scrawny. Even at a distance, Joe could see the soft, silky texture of the youth’s skin. Tender flesh waiting to be used and tortured—Joe’s lust was getting harder to restrain. He needed to take a moment.

Abruptly turning his back on the slut, he strode across the floor to the table where he’d left his jacket, his leather engineer boots leaving little impression on the soiled, threadbare carpet. Reaching into one of the pockets on the jacket, he fished out his smokes and lit one up, slipping the pack and lighter back into the jacket. He didn’t carry them in the jeans—they were truly skin-tight and would have crushed the pack.

Noah looked on, half in fascination and half in concern. He didn’t know many people who smoked—and those he did, his parents never failed to point out, were going to burn in Hell for various sins, cigarettes only one of them.

The thought of what they’d say if they could see him was strangely appealing. This was forbidden and that made it so much more erotic…

“W-won’t that make my clothes smell?” he asked shakily as he leaned against the bed and crossed one leg over the other so he could untie his sneakers.

Noah nodded mutely. The enormity of what has happening had hit him. He was about to lose his virginity—with an anonymous older man in a motel room. There was no going back after this. Whatever else happened in his life, it would be stained by this night.

But in the battle between piety and hormones, the latter was the natural winner. After all, his young, healthy body was at its sexual peak. Noah rarely jacked off; that was a sin, too—worse than cigarettes, by far. And he had almost no privacy at home anyway.

Lust, aided by the thick musky scents of sweat and smoke, stifled the tritely moralistic murmurings in Noah’s mind. Having pulled off his hightops, he dropped his jeans first. He stood across from Joe, his lithe young body nude except for his thin white briefs and his calf-high athletic socks. Joe took another drag from his cig and leered at the kid’s groin; it looked like he’d stuffed a sausage in his underwear.

Joe knew damn good and well the cringing little faggot hadn’t done anything with anybody ever. But tonight, he was playing for effect. Tonight wasn’t just assrape—it was mindrape too. So the cunt had to be cajoled.

And besides, the punk wanted it. “Fuck, dude, don’t back out now. Lookit yer dick, man—even from here I can see how hard it is. You want my shaft, don’t ya, son? It’s ok—you can take my rod up your virgin hole tonight and no one will know.”

Noah moaned in erotic lust as a dark spot appeared on the white cotton briefs. Joe chuckled, noting that it was right at the tip of the slut’s cock. Motherfuckin’ homo was already oozing.

“Drop ‘em,” the hulking sadist whispered, pitching his voice seductively low. “Drop yer drawers, boy, and get on the bed.”

Noah trembled, but he obeyed, slipping out of the briefs. His flat belly fell smoothly to his groin where curly sand-colored pubes framed a thick, semi-erect tube of pulsing meat. Clear drops of fluid were dripping out of the dark mushroom tip.

The naked teen backed up onto the bed, his beautiful, lithe body gingerly avoiding the stains on the cheap bedspread. Joe dropped his cigarette and casually crushed it out with his big black boot as he moved towards the bed. The burn was unnoticeable among the others darkening the carpet.

The powerful alpha towered over the punk and leered down at him. Instinctively, the youth cowered in the shadow of the older man, but glanced up immediately when he heard the dude open his zipper. The older man had already unbuckled his belt; the thick leather strap dangled loosely on each side of his denim-bound hips.

The biggest dick Noah had ever seen was his own. That changed now.

Joe pulled out his cock slowly and expertly, appreciating the effect he was having on his prey. The kid gaped openly as inch after inch of the stud’s swollen, throbbing shaft emerged from his open fly. The flesh was so dark, it was almost black, fed by the ropy veins that tightly circled the pulsating rod. The thick dark trail of fur leading down the stud’s muscled chest and over his firm abs seemed to be designed to direct attention to the groin.

Noah gulped in astonishment. He was scared, but not as much as he should have been, even without knowing Joe’s plans for him. He’d never so much as played with his ass before—the boy was impressed with the older man’s penis but had no concept of how much it would hurt jammed up his colon.

Even so, the alpha’s dick was intimidating. “Wh-what ya gonna do with that?” he asked tremulously.

Joe spoke quietly, the deep bass of his voice seeming to vibrate the root of Noah’s cock. “Look at it boy,” he muttered, “look at my dick. You want it, dontcha? G’wan, put it in yer mouth. Do it, boy, you know ya wanna.”

The alpha was right. Noah did wanna. He looked confused and timid, but he leaned forward and took the spongy purple tip into his open mouth, working his tongue over the oozing head and teasing the tender rosebud on the underside. He slurped loudly, enjoying the salty taste of the precum leaking into his mouth.

Noah was both shocked and thrilled with the abuse. Leaning even father forward, he opened his jaw as wide as he could to deepthroat the dominant stranger, his right hand a blur as he jacked his own tool wildly. Even more erotic was the way the muscular stud clamped his hands on the back of the boy’s head and forced it down onto his throbbing tubesteak. Deep in the grip of overwhelming lust, the teen had shed his trepidation and succumbed to his long-suppressed desires.

The top’s thick column of meat slid into the youth’s throat, plugging it thoroughly. The kid gagged and choked as Joe’s dick sealed off his airpipe, anxiety rising in his lust-fogged mind as his breath was blocked. As his eyes started to water, he braced his hands against the alpha’s legs and tried to shove him away. It was like trying to topple a large tree by pushing it over; he could feel the power in the taut denim-covered muscles flexing against his palms.

Then, with a sardonic chuckle too subtle for the horny teen to interpret, Joe pulled out. The hardbodied sadist admired his dick, bobbing in the air and dripping long streamers of boyspit as Noah retched, trying not to puke up the dinner his momma had made him. The shuddering youth coughed up drool that flowed off his chin, straight down onto the engorged head of his own cock.

He’d liked it. It’d been scary—terrifying, for a moment—but he’d liked it. He’d liked how the larger, stronger man had taken control and used his face as a fucktoy. Not that the innocent little faggot virgin would have expressed it in those terms, of course, but the lust motivating his warped pig soul was the same.

The fact that it was a disgusting sin that would instantly damn him to Hell only made it sexier. He was ready to be bad.

Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, Noah looked up at the strapping, broad-chested alpha. He was suddenly entranced with the stranger’s black chest hair, as if noticing it for the first time. Timorously, he extended a hand.

It was only with a great deal of patience and an almost superhuman suppression of rage that Joe allowed the boycunt to touch him. He stood tall and erect next to the bed, letting the punk run his hands over his huge pecs and fondle his nipples before the greedy, desire-driven fingers sank lower down his body and curled in the fur coating his rippled abs.

His anger was expressed through his cock, which pulsed visibly, pumping out a steady stream of clear precum. Noah noticed the effect but had no clue as to the cause.

That thought made Joe’s dick throb even more. Even if the stupid little shit had a clue, there was no way he could conceive the nightmare in store for him.

Then again, maybe he could. There were some imaginative deaths in the Bible. Joe’s grin came back, more evil than ever. He looked down at the teen with a cold, appraising contempt. The cunt would do; he’d be an acceptable meatsack to soak up Joe’s seed.

Time to get biblical on his ass.

He started slow. “Ok, boy,” he said, just a hint of menace in his husky voice, “get on your back. Time to go whole hog.” He grinned and thrust his hips slightly so that his huge dick swung between his legs. “And believe me, punk, you’re gettin’ the whole hog.”

Trembling with both fear and desire, Noah moved back, his smooth skin crawling from contact with the thin polyester bedspread. He managed to wriggle to one side, pushing the cover away, only to find the cheap sheets underneath no more comfortable.

It didn’t matter. Tonight, he was gonna explore his darkest dreams; tomorrow he’d be back to being the good little choirboy his family thought he was. And even if he ultimately went to Hell for it, it’d be worth it.

The slim, handsome youth stretched out on his back and raised his legs in the air, presenting his fuckhole like a bitch in heat. He was gonna get fucked. A little discomfort wouldn’t matter.

The icy gleam in the alpha’s eyes should have been a warning, but the teen had nothing by which to judge it. Legs spread, he waited eagerly for his first—and unknown to him, his last—sexual experience.

Joe climbed on the bed, kneeling between the kid’s smooth, trembling legs. Grasping his huge oozing tube of manmeat, he rubbed his dick across the punk’s ass, smearing it with precum. He smiled gently as he placed the thick purple head of his cock against the boy’s buttcrack, the fine hairs tickling his swollen mushroom tip.

Noah felt the pressure and uttered a nervous, breathy moan. This was it. Everything he’d dreamed of, a hot hard powerful stranger who was gonna fuck the shit outta him.

And then he was gonna go home and pretend it never happened. He was gonna go on with his life and no one would ever know. His folks would never, could never know how he’d spent the night; it was something they were simply incapable of imagining. And that was all to Noah’s benefit. It meant he’d get away with it—so he quashed his anxiety and readied himself for intense physical pleasure.

But that wasn’t what he got.

Joe was ready. He knew the little motherfucker was a virgin and wouldn’t be able to handle his tool; he expected it. He didn’t even need to know the kid’s name to know how the pig would respond. He didn’t start forcefully, though, there was something he was waiting for, something the slut would ask for. So he applied pressure slowly, easing the head of his dick into the youth’s tight, intact fuckhole.

At the start, Noah shuddered with pleasure. As he felt the iron-hard shaft start to penetrate him, he inhaled deeply. The closeness of the muscular alpha flooded his sinuses with sweat and pheromones. The inexperienced teen’s impatience to have the handsome hulking stud buried deep inside him, marking him as his own, outweighed any other concern.

Fuck his parents, fuck the bible, fuck it all. He gave the Joe the invitation he’d been waiting for. The kid was ready to be a complete faggot pig.

“Fuck me, man,” he moaned in a mind-numbing fog of lust. “Do what you want to me, dude, fuck me rough. Make me yours tonight…” His plea trailed off in a gasp of desire.

Joe chuckled malignly. “Ok, cunt,” he sneered, “you asked for it.”

Even in his erotic frenzy, the curt, cold tone managed to cut its way through to the center of Noah’s awareness. By the time it did so, however, there were more pressing matters demanding his attention—like the horrible agony in his ass.

The cruel sadist had jammed the entire length of his massive, blood-engorged cock into the boy’s ass. The phenomenal girth of his member ripped open the youth’s sphincter, making the kid bleed like his cherry had been popped—as it had, brutally.

Noah couldn’t scream. He wanted to, badly, but he couldn’t—fuck, he couldn’t even breathe. It hurt too much. It hurt too much to breathe, to move, to think…

Move. He needed to move. He needed to get of this fucking rod that was impaling his tender rectum, oh fuck he needed to move—

Later, Joe was pissed at himself. He’d let his guard down and it almost backfired on him. Of course, when it happened, he’d been more pissed at the little homo teen. And so it was the young cocksucker who ultimately took the brunt of his wrath.

At the time, though, Noah thought he was achieving redemption, not damnation, as he clawed his way up off Joe’s enormous dick, kicking and flailing like a wild thing. Joe was momentarily taken aback—not long, but long enough that the writhing punk was able to scramble free towards the head of the bed.

In the next moment, the kid had rolled to the floor and bolted for the bathroom. In a blood-red rage, Joe lunged after his prey, only to have the boy evade him at the last moment and lock himself in.

As Noah slammed the door and turned the lock in the doorknob, he shuddered in relief—and started praying. He’d been wrong. He’d sinned, badly, and he’d been punished. It had hurt; only sinners could want pain like that, Jesus had shown him the way and he wasn’t ever gonna do anything like this again—

And that was when Joe’s big black boot kicked through the flimsy hollow-core door, punching out a huge hole. Squealing with fear, the terrified teenager threw himself on the floor and wrapped his arms around the base of the toilet. He babbled promises to behave to his God, pleading for salvation in air rank with piss.

The enraged alpha had gotten the bathroom door open. Noah kept his eyes squeezed shut; if he didn’t see what was happening, maybe God wouldn’t let it happen. He clung to that belief desperately as he heard the muscled sadist approach.

Joe was done playing. He bent down and wrapped one hand clean around the boy’s upper arm. With a powerful jerk, he pulled the punk free of the toilet and stalked back to the bedroom, dragging the helpless, sobbing youth across the floor behind him. With a swift, brutal yank, he flung the boy onto the bed.

Noah cowered, weeping in abject fear. He wasn’t curious anymore. He wanted to go home, go back to safe quiet bible study and beating off secretly in the bathroom. This—this was too scary, this stud, sexy as he was, was gonna hurt him.

The naïve teen glanced up into the face of his tormentor and flinched instantly. This time, there was no question of mistaking the formidable look of hot rage and cold lust. No, he wanted no part of any of this.

So why was his dick so fucking hard?

It was almost painfully erect, throbbing fiercely. An almost steady stream of clear fluid was leaking out. He didn’t understand. This wasn’t happening.

Then Joe made it happen.

He lunged forward in a lightning blast of violence, driving his fist into the punk’s soft, smooth belly with the force of an industrial piston. Noah gave a deep, loud grunt and instantly curled into a fetal position as a hard ball of pain tore through his midsection. The next few seconds seemed an eternity as the kid clutched his abdomen and writhed, trying to get air back into his lungs.

“Ya made a bad mistake, motherfucker,” Joe hissed, a frightening glint of psychotic glee dancing in his eyes. “I was only gonna kill ya before, you worthless cumsucking fag, but, see, now I gotta make it hurt.”

He sat gently on the bed next to Noah and softly stroked the boy’s tearstained face. Brushing away a lock of the kid’s soft brown hair, he leaned so close that Noah could feel the older man’s facial scruff scratch his ear. As he whispered, his breath was warm on the youth’s neck.

“That means I gotta make it slow…”

Still struggling for air, the closeted churchboy wasn’t able to comprehend what was being said to him; his attention was focused elsewhere, Joe observed with displeasure. Time to reorient the queer-ass bitch.

Joe rolled the kid onto his back and spread his legs. Noah realized what was going on just before Joe slammed the full length of his cock up the teen’s virgin ass. The pressure at the start was tremendous but Joe shoved his rod forward with renewed force, ripping new tears through the kid’s already-mangled sphincter the way his boot had ripped through the door.

It got Noah’s air back. His body contracted involuntarily in distress, stimulating him to inhale. The pain—this was Hell, he was being punished…this kinda pain could only come from Hell…

He shrieked in agony—once. The shrill screech was cut off when Joe balled his fist and sent a piledriver straight from his shoulder into the boy’s face, blackening his eye and snapping his cheekbone. “Shaddap!” he barked gruffly as he gripped the punk’s heaving torso in his huge hands, clamping down to hold the smooth lean body still as he penetrated it further.

Lost in a dark haze of pain, Noah had limited awareness of anything beyond his own suffering. His whole body seemed to be consumed in a flame of nightmarish agony from his ass to his face to his cock…

As his body shuddered under the violent sexual assault, Noah realized that his cock was not only still hard, it was so hard it hurt.

No, this couldn’t be. This couldn’t be him. This was wrong. He had to get away, this wasn’t going to happen to him… As the panic welled up inside the inexperienced teen, his struggles and cries began to intensify.

He hadn’t learned his lesson, Joe realized. Well, that was ok. The little fuck was young and healthy; he’d probably last for a while. Plenty of time for learnin’. But he needed lesson one all over again.

“I said shaddap!” Joe roared, throwing a feral growl into his voice that terrified the youth in the half-second before another donkey-punch landed, splitting his lips. “You keep your goddam mouth shut while I’m fuckin’ ya, you sniveling faggot, ya feeling me? Huh, you pansy bitch? You get what I’m sayin’?”

Noah’s eyes opened wide with shock; even in this nightmare anticipation of Hell, the alpha’s words had sunk in. No, this was wrong…he wasn’t a faggot…please, if he could just get away he’d never look at another dick again, he’d never—

And even as he pled silently, he realized it was a bargain he could never keep. High above the wave of pain swamping his nervous system, the hormone-flooded teen could still feel his own swollen shaft stabbing into the alpha’s rippled abs. An ineffectual weapon of defense, it left trails of clear slimy precum matting the muscled sadist’s dark belly fur.

Suddenly, Joe stopped. He was fully inserted, his long thick rod buried up to the root, his wiry pubes interlocked with the youth’s soft downy fuzz like Velcro. Sweating and gasping, the powerful top loomed over his victim, the helpless teen who was now pinned to the bed like an insect on his assailant’s cock.

The boy opened his eyes hesitantly—at least, he opened his right eye. He was shuddering in pain, barely able to breathe. The left side of his face was black and swelling, with blood leaking from his busted lips.

The image the suffering teenager saw stuck with him for the rest of his life—approximately another thirteen minutes.

The coldly handsome face of the older man hung just inches from his, but the expression on the hard, unshaven face was unlike anything the innocent youth had ever seen. A somehow erotic mixture of contempt, rage, and desire that offered no hope of compassion or common humanity. It was the expression of a sexual sadist.

Noah was too sheltered to have heard of such a thing, but he got an idea when Joe hocked up a huge wad of phlegm, grinned at the boy, and spit it into his face. “Fuckin’ faggot,” he sneered.

It triggered a desperate rebellion in Noah—unfortunately. “No!” he shouted in his mind, the reality being a guttural protest pushed out inarticulately between puffy lips. But it was enough to get the attention of the brawny psychopath.

“Goddam it, you piece a’ shit, you really are fuckin’ stupid, aintcha?” he snarled viciously. “I toldja to shut the fuck up and here ya are tryin’ to whine about somethin’! I said to shut the fuck UP!” As his voice rose in rage on the last syllable, he swung back and delivered a massive roundhouse punch square to the boy’s jaw.

The punk’s head rocked back as his body flailed from the force of the blow. Poised on his knees, Joe grunted in pleasure as the involuntary movements worked the cunt’s guts around the sensitive head of his shaft. The slut’s own tool, violently bobbing with the rest of his body, spattered them both with a fine rain of precum.

The sadist observed with sick erotic pleasure the way the faggot’s eyes rolled back and his eyelids fluttered as he trembled on the edge of consciousness. As the traumatized teen struggled to stay awake, he coughed up a gout of blood; he was too stunned to realize that he’d spat out one of his canine teeth.

When Noah finally came back to himself, he’d had his epiphany. He was saved. He was truly ready to give up sin in all its forms and surrender himself to his Lord. He was convinced of the error of his ways and deeply repentant of them.

Problem was, it was a little too late. Joe made that perfectly clear.

Leaning forward, he wrapped his huge strong paws around the teen’s pale, fragile throat and began to squeeze—slowly at first, but inexorably nonetheless. “G’wan and pray, you useless little bible-thumping faggot—it ain’t gonna help ya, you disgusting cumsucker. Time to die, cunt. You ready to meet yer maker? Cause when ya do, you’re gonna be full of cum!”

In a deep red sea of pain, Noah heard the words but didn’t comprehend them. He was just a soft suburban teen; he hadn’t had the chance to recover from the brutal assault before his air was cut off—utterly and completely.

Instinctively, the lithe punk began to struggle violently, his hands clawing at Joe’s, trying to pry them away from his neck while his slim, firm legs kicked and flailed wildly. His heels drummed on the bed, his flexing feet scraping at the sheets and twisting his white socks.

Noah opened his eyes—well, his right eye; the left side of his face was battered and swollen beyond recognition—and with tears welling out, tried to beg and plead for mercy. He’d never do it again, dear lord, please save me I’ll never look at another boy again I promise…

But no words were coming out. And somewhere in the throbbing drumbeat of torment that had become his world, he was slowly becoming aware of a new pain—that of choking to death.

Now his movements weren’t instinctual. They weren’t necessarily controlled; they were born out of the frenzied panic that seized the little faggot’s soul.

The kid wasn’t heavily muscled, but he was no weakling and the fear of death gave an extra impetus to his desperation. Clawing madly at his own throat, he soon realized the futility of the gesture and began tugging at Joe’s strong, burly arms. As the youth’s legs thrashed, they slapped wetly against the alpha’s pumping, sweat-streaked torso. His left foot caught in the a fold of the fitted sheet and pulled it away from the mattress; as his leg recoiled involuntarily, the sock came off in the fold, leaving the boy’s bare foot exposed, toes curling as he died.

“Yer gonna die on my motherfuckin’ cock, you homo cunt,” Joe growled like a feral beast as he raped and strangled the teen. “How’s it feel? Does it hurt? Huh? Does it, you worthless sack of shit? Go on and pray, little boy, but I’m your God now. I’m the one who decides when you die and how much it’s gonna hurt.”

He paused for a moment to admire the look of stunned shock on the punk’s face (at least, what was left of it). He knew the meat had heard—and more importantly, had understood. He spat another wad of phlegm into the youth’s mauled face and spoke again, this time in a low whisper, cold and sharp like a steel blade.

“Here’s a secret, fag—it’s gonna hurt. A lot. More than you can possibly imagine. And the more it hurts you, the more I’m gonna spunk when you finally die, you useless cumdump. Just so you know, you sick homo scum. Just so you know you’re getting exactly what you deserve.”

And with that, he squeezed harder, feeling the cunt’s flexible esophagus constrict beneath his hands. He dug his fingernails into the tender flesh on the back of the unfortunate boy’s neck, so he could get better traction with which to throttle the punk-ass queerboy.

Noah knew now beyond any doubt that he was experiencing Hell—he was being given a literal foretaste of the torture he’d endure for eternity. The burning in his head, the excruciating visehold on his throat, the pounding anguish in his ass…oh God…he’d wanted to get fucked and was gonna be sodomized by the Devil forever…and worse, he was gonna be found like this!

Everyone was gonna think he was a disgusting pervert, a child-molesting sodomite—Momma, Daddy—oh God, Daddy—even Archie, the youth minister…he’d been at Archie’s today and seen the way Archie’d started at his crotch; oh fuck he shoulda stayed there…

The once-virginal teenage slipped in and out of coherence in his terror, but never slackened his struggle to break free. His frantic, questing hands continually sought some sort of hold on his killer’s rock-hard body in an attempt to have some kind of impact.

Everywhere Noah’s hands landed, though, they slid across sweaty, hard, firm flesh; the only thing the flailing kid was able to grab ahold of was the stud’s thick, wiry chest hair. Without even thinking, Noah snatched a handful and yanked it out in a paroxysm of terror and pain.

“Goddam motherfucker!” Joe howled in pain-ignited anger. Clenching his huge left hand around the boy’s throat, he freed his right hand and drove it three more times into the dying faggot’s face, each blow landing with a wet thudding sound—the last one with a moist crunch when Noah’s nose was broken.

Without missing a single rhythmic stoke of his long shaft, Joe wrapped his hand back around the meat’s neck and kept squeezing. He could feel the head of his dick deep inside the thrashing youth’s guts. The way the slut’s innards had stroked the swollen, sensitive head of his tool while the boy was being beaten had been fantastic.

“Yeah, dude, that’s what ya need, huh? You like it to hurt, huh, you fuckin’ pig? Was that the problem, you weren’t in enough pain to work my cock? Fuck, man ya shoulda said so—we can fix that right now, fuck yeah!”

With that, Joe slowly increased the pressure on Noah’s neck, this time digging his thumbs into the miserable boy’s Adam’s apple. The sadistic stud grinned as he felt the cartilage start to give way under the force he applied.

Noah was beyond thought. He was in a world of physical sensations that had been previously unconceivable to him, as much as he’d heard of the torments of Hell. This pain couldn’t last for eternity; there’d be nothing left of him but a hollow screaming shell. He was being split open from the inside out; he was still aware of the alpha’s cock reaming his rectum, pulling and tearing at his intestines like a plunger. His face was black and swollen; between the beatings and the choking, it looked like a rotten gourd. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, pulpy and pulsating with pain.

The excruciating agony of his throat was the worst, though. His windpipe was crushed almost completely flat and the way the top’s thumbs were grinding into his vocal cords hurt so bad Noah began convulsing involuntarily as his stomach tried instinctively to retch.

The grinning sadist tightened his grip yet again as his strapping, powerful body bore down on the helpless teen. The sleazy overheated motel room was redolent with a miasma of sweat, smoke and mansex, making an almost visible haze in the air. The sounds of mansex filled the air, too—the increasing tempo to the creaking of the bed, the swift slapping sounds of hardcore fucking, the deep, vital grunts of two males locked bodily together in intensity and lust.

The fact that one of the males was dying only added to the intensity. And the lust.

Even Noah felt the lust. He felt it as a hitherto-unknown source of agony. His dick had been hard enough to hurt before, but now it was electrifying—it seemed as if a white-hot rod of steel had been jammed up through his ass into his cock, extending it in flaming agony the further it penetrated.

Joe felt the lust, too, both his own and Noah’s He felt the meat’s deathpig lust as the cunt’s thick purple cock slapped against his belly, still leaving a thick trail of erotic slime in his fur, even during the throes of death.

He felt his own lust as the homo’s thick bloodied lips parted, releasing a torrent of foamy drool. He felt it as the choking teen’s tongue, as swollen and purple as his dick, slowly emerged from his blackened, distorted face.

For Noah, there was no heaven, no Hell anymore. There wasn’t even any Noah; too much of his brain had been starved of oxygen for too long. The brain damage was irreversible. Not everything was gone, though.

The brain stem remained, able to feel sensation and basic emotion. What emerged was the primal submissive beast, submitting to and being marked by the dominant alpha.

The brain-dead teen was convulsing violently, his colon clenching the cruel killer’s shaft in an instinctive attempt to milk out the testosterone and be marked as belonging to the alpha. The hormones flooding the queerboy’s body overstimulated this response.

Joe had never had a dying cumdump stroke his rod so vigorously; he’d been right to go for the virginal churchboy; they always wanted dick in the worst way.

And Joe specialized in giving dick in the worst way.

He held onto the bucking teen like he was breaking a bull, letting the natural rhythms of convulsion and death beat his swollen shaft to orgasm. The young homo’s cock was still erect and visibly pulsing as Joe felt intense, overflowing pressure building in his puckered sack.

He was gonna unload. “Guess you were an ok cumrag, faggot,” he grunted as his body jolted in violent release.

The hulking, muscular killer clenched his hands tightly in his first instinctive reaction to shooting his wad; the loud crunching sound of crushed cartilage filled the room. The quivering boy also reacted involuntarily—it was the final blast of pain needed to override the teen deathpig’s nervous system and trigger an unnaturally prolonged orgasm.

The youth’s overabundant hormones had swamped his body in excess testosterone. It had led him to seeking its release in dangerous situations—and now, it led his dying body to ejaculate for nearly ninety seconds straight, the last spark of his life fading with an awareness of white-hot molten steel flooding his anus and pumping out through his erect shaft; he was merely a conduit for the boiling seed of life…

As thick, ropy strands of semen splashed across Joe’s broad, furry chest, he cried out in rage and hate, pumping his thick, creamy jizz as deep into the worthless kid’s body as he could. Shifting his powerful hands up Noah’s crushed neck, he clamped down again, this time where he could place his thumbs under the angle of the kid’s jaw.

“Ok, motherfucker, time to go,” he grunted. As another orgasm wracked his powerful body, his hands clenched, driving his thumbs upwards.

There was a loud cracking sound as the brawny sadist popped the teen fag’s head off his spine, snapping the topmost vertebra and sending bone shards slashing into the spinal column.

Noah had already emptied his balls and his mind; there was nothing left but a sweaty cum-filled meatsack until the sudden blast of massive trauma to his central nervous system sent random signals thought his taut, shuddering corpse.

One of these hit the scrotum and, even in death, contracted the muscles and caused the young queer’s cock to send up a final jet of spunk, the hot pearly liquid splattering on the underside of Joe’s jaw as the older man grunted and cried out, spewing his last boiling wad into the kid’s torn and slashed rectum.

Even after he’d pumped his last drop of semen into the corpse’s shuddering guts, Joe continued to fuck the quivering body, his massive shaft still erect and tearing into the convulsing pig’s colon. “Fuck yeah, dude, I’m your God now, huh? I gave you everything ya ever wanted, huh, ya faggot? I gave ya hot fuckin’ mansex, I gave ya pain and death—who’s yer daddy now, huh, cunt?”

Spitting in contempt on the twitching corpse, Joe pulled himself out of the boy’s well-worn fuckhole. His dick slid out in a slimy pool of cum and blood that instantly stained the sheets under the slut’s quivering anus; it was obvious that the dead boy had been violently fucked.

Still sweating and shaking with pleasurable exertion, Joe staggered back across the room to his jacket. He fished the smokes and lighter out of the pocket and lit one as he leaned back and took a moment to chill.

On the bed, Noah was chilling too; in fact, he was cooling by the minute. But his corpse was still fresh and limber; random nerves still fired down the mangled spinal column, making the body continue to shudder and twitch. Even now, the toes on the teen’s bare foot continued to curl and spasm in death. The other foot, with the white athletic sock wrapped tightly around it, kicked jaggedly across the rumpled, stained sheets.

The punk’s smooth, flat abdomen still heaved convulsively, smeared with coagulating pools of semen, all his own. Some of it was glazing his grotesquely distorted face. His black, swollen cheeks were stained with a white scum where his foamy panicked drool had dried to a crust as he’d died.

Joe inhaled the nicotine deeply. Even though he’d completely emptied his balls, the teenage faggot’s corpse was so hot, his dick was still throbbing as he looked at it.

He knew he had to go, though. This cunt had made a lot of noise. He needed to get away fairly quickly. Tossing his smoldering butt onto the boy’s smooth chest (where it hissed out in a puddle of jizz), he stepped into the bathroom and cleaned himself up, using a wet washcloth and soap to remove all traces of the dead pansy’s spunk. Tossing the towel he used, along with the washcloth, into the toilet, he returned to the bedroom after fastening up his fly and slipped on his thermal shirt and leather jacket.

He was vaguely aware that the teen homo was still twitching, but he didn’t really give a shit anymore. A quick glance outside showed that no one was around, and he made it to his car and out of the motel lot unseen.

The corpse was found the next morning, but without ID (since Noah parents hadn’t allowed him a driver’s license yet), it went to the city morgue. Later the same day, Noah’s folks frantically reported him missing, out in the suburb where they lived.

It was the better part of a week before anyone connected the reamed-out, cum-soaked corpse found beaten, raped and strangled in a cheap motel with the straight-A bible school virgin Noah. When the connection was made, the outcry in the media was loud and shrill, demanding vengeance from every corner.

It was trouble, of course; the Trucker was intelligent enough to realize that right away.

If nothing else, the timing would have told him that. Not very likely that it’d be a coincidence that someone was banging at the door minutes after he’d wasted a bitch. He wasn’t prepared to deal with anyone but he was cold-blooded enough that it didn’t worry him much. But after dragging the twitching corpse into the bathroom, the Trucker had stripped—he’d wanted to clean himself off before hoisting the body into the tub, since he planned to leave it in there when he left.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he closed the door behind him, leaving the shower running. He strode towards the door, totally nude, his dick still erect, jutting out in front of him, thick and purple. With the shower running behindff the closed bathroom door, he could say he’d just had sex and the slut was cleaning up.

After all, with the door closed, the corpse on the bathroom floor couldn’t be seen.

And the Trucker decided he wanted to answer the door nude. He was well aware of his imposing physique and the impression it made on others. A little intimidation always came in handy in a situation like this.

And while he hadn’t been caught with a raped and murdered boy in a motel room before, he’d had some close calls. That last kid he’d done on his prior route, the one before the Marine. His older brother had walked in before he was finished. And then—

The Trucker grinned at the memory as he worked the locks on the door, only slightly aware that his reminiscences had made his cock start oozing precum again.

Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t a gun.

The man holding it was familiar. And a cop—a trooper…it clicked. That cunt he’d picked up on the side of the road; the one he’d tossed in a ditch like the garbage he was—this was the cop that had come up to his truck while he was snuffing the faggot.

For the first time in his life, the Trucker was genuinely caught off guard. He was careful and very, very good at what he did. He was truly stunned to find that he’d been traced like this.

The Trooper, for his part, was just as stunned. With his sidearm out and at the ready, he’d started in gleeful ecstasy, recognizing the face of the man he’d hunted for so long. But as he turned his attention downward and took in the Trucker’s body, glistening with sweat from his recent exertions, he was subsumed in a rising tide of lust. And that huge dripping shaft dangling out in front…

The Trucker saw the Trooper’s gaze slide down his body; he also notice the tentpole rising in the crotch of the tight khaki slacks the Trooper was wearing. The young cop looked back up into the Trucker’s face—he was about four inches shorter than the older man—his eyes glittering with desire.

“Get back in that room, motherfucker,” he hissed. “Quiet and slow, asshole. I can put a hole the size of my fist in your guts and claim self-defense and ain’t no one in this part of the state gonna question it, so move. NOW.” He motioned with the large nickel-plated handgun—it looked like a .45.

As the Trucker carefully stepped backward into the room, he felt every predatory sense he possessed as a hunter engage. He knew that his life was in danger, but there was more going on here.

The Trooper entered the room at the same snail’s pace with which the Trucker backed away. Once he was fully inside the room, he kicked back, his high black leather boot connecting with the door and swinging it shut, the automatic lock engaging with a loud click.

The deathly silence that enveloped the room belied the vortex of manscent and testosterone that swirled as two expert killers sized up each other.

The Trooper slowly circled to the left, inching towards the bathroom with a careful sidestep motion. He stood directly in front of the door and reached behind him to grab the doorknob, never removing his eyes—or the barrel of the gun—from the Trucker until he got the door open. Then he took a quick glance into the steam-filled room, but the gun never wavered.

His head was turned for only a split second and the Trucker was too far away to reach him in that time. He didn’t even try. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t looking for some weak spot to attack. He was in deep shit; that was obvious. And yet, somehow, the thought of arrest never crossed his mind. That wasn’t the point here, and he knew it.

If he hadn’t, the look on the Trooper’s face as he turned back would have been a good clue. The salacious grin, the evil leer twisting his young, handsome face, were the first hint; the swift enlargement of the bulge in his groin was the second. The cop must be hung like a horse. A well-hung horse, at that.

The Trooper chuckled. “Damn, dude, ya did a good job on him. Not as good as the last one, but better than the others.”

There was a short pause, then the Trucker replied with a brief question. “How long?”

“I found your first boytoy where ya dropped him off—in that gully. Or was he the first? Where’d ya get those dogtags, asswipe? You in the military? Doubt it. But I do remember an alert about a Marine got himself raped and strangled several days ago.”

“What you’re gonna do, jackoff, is get over there against the radiator,” snapped the Trooper. “Move it, motherfucker!”

The Trucker moved back to the radiator in the far corner of the room, on the far side of the nightstand, as the young man approached, reaching down to open a pocket on his duty belt and slip out a pair of handcuffs.

The Trooper pressed forward, forcing the Trucker up against the wall. Standing face to face with the older man, he had to look slightly up, the four-inch height differential forced him to look slightly upwards. But he wasn’t too short to jam the muzzle of the handgun painfully against the Trucker’s temple…

At this close range, the Trucker could see that his buzz-cut hair had a reddish tint and the five o’clock shadow starting to darken his smooth cheeks was red-gold. His blue eyes were colder than ice; they glittered like chips of quartz.

It was unmistakable. The Trucker had seen it dozens of times before. They were glittering with lust.

Before he’d had the chance to process this information, the Trooper had whipped out the cuffs and bound him to the radiator with the swiftness of a well-practiced maneuver.

Then the cop backed towards the bed. Setting his gun down on the disheveled, semen-soaked sheets, he slowly began unbuttoning his short-sleeve khaki dress shirt. He slipped it off, revealing his simple white cotton t-shirt tucked into his trousers. It stretched so tightly over his broad pecs that his large nipples stood out far enough to cast small shadows.

The Trucker stood still, trying to decide how to deal with the situation. He knew better than to show emotion; he was a master of using a chink in emotional armor to break his victim’s spirit. And that, more than anything else, was what gave him pause. He was facing someone who might be his equal.

Not all of his prey were twinks; he’d offed some pretty strong dudes. But they were sluts and whores, taken by surprise. He might get the jump momentarily on this guy, but the cop would be quick to react.

Had he killed before? That was the question the Trucker had to figure out. In a struggle to the death, there are certain factors to take into account. There are unexpected movements from the dying pig, unexpected urges and desires in the killer…

If the hot young stud slowly stripping in front of him hadn’t killed, the Trucker still had an advantage. But if he was an experienced predator, this could be bad.

Very, very bad.

The Trooper sat gingerly on the bed, avoiding the wet spots. Crossing his legs, one at a time, he pulled off his high, glossy leather boots and set them at the foot of the bed. Standing back up, he slowly unbuckled his dress belt and unfastened his pants, leaving his duty belt still clasped. He glanced down as he did so, but after confirming that the slacks still clung to his hips, almost immediately turned his flinty eyes up to leer at the Trucker.

Despite his resolve, the Trucker was unable to prevent the obvious swelling of his tool, the increased amount of precum bubbling out of his thick purple head. The Trooper’s expression of malicious triumph was as maddening as his body was mesmerizing; it was as if his personality changed to match the look on his face.

The cop’s lascivious grin gave his handsome, almost model-worthy face an impish look. When he broke eye contact to unfasten the catch on his duty belt, though, his face fell back into an unpleasant arrogant expression.

The younger man placed his duty belt on the nightstand but the weight of the baton threw it off balance and it slid to the floor. With a muttered curse, the hard-bodied rogue lawman reached down and unsnapped the loop that held the two-foot aluminum baton in place. He kicked out with his foot, his white sock bright against the black side handle, shoving the weapon away from him (although no closer to the Trucker). Snatching up the belt, he tossed it back onto the nightstand, where it landed loudly—there were several more items still in it. The Trucker could see a small container of pepper spray and another pair of cuffs, among other things.

The Trooper dropped his pants and immediately gathered up his uniform, carefully folding both shirt and slacks before laying them on the dresser.

As he moved, his firm, muscular body flexed in his t-shirt, gray boxers and calf-high white athletic socks. His bulging thighs and biceps were smooth, but his forearms and calves shimmered with a faint reddish-gold haze from a light furry fuzz. Almost irrelevantly, the Trucker noticed the sharp, defined line where the cop’s buzz-cut hair ended on the back of his head.

Turning towards his captive, the Trooper smiled sardonically in acknowledgement of the effect he was having on the older man. He executed a sort of strip-tease, peeling the t-shirt off his sculpted torso and slowly sliding the boxers down his thick legs, revealing a thick, dripping tube of flesh that nearly equaled the Trucker’s own in size, hanging semi-limply from a bushy mass of strawberry-blond curls.

The Trooper stood with his legs spread, nude except for the socks up his calves, grinning at the Trucker. “Like what ya see, asshole? Bet ya do, you fuckin’ psycho faggot.” He twisted to the left, snatching his huge .45 off the bed before advancing on his prisoner.

He was good. The Trucker hadn’t seen him palm the key to the cuffs. The younger man had almost managed to get them unlocked before the Trucker caught on. But for a moment—just the briefest moment—the Trooper needed both hands to work the key. He never let go of the gun, using his thumb and the last two fingers to brace the cuff itself, but the barrel was no longer pointed right at the Trucker.

That was when the cuffs popped open, freeing the older man’s hand. The Trucker was just as calm and cold as the cop, still in control despite his lust. His wits were about him, enough, at least, to take advantage of this momentary break.

In the blink of an eye, he knocked the gun out of the young cop’s hand; it clattered on top of the table in front of the window, skittering across the surface before sliding off into the corner behind the chair.

Both men stared at the corner, processing the fact that the weapon was out of the immediate reach of both. Then they looked at each other, each sizing up the other in the realization that this was going to be a fight to the death.

But death, when it came for the loser, would be a welcome relief, a blessed escape from agony and humiliation.

Two well-built, muscular men regarded each other in full awareness that only one of them was going to leave the room alive. And the one that didn’t was going to suffer a brutal rape and unimaginable torture.

Each one kept a razor-sharp eye contact with the other, seeking any sign, any signal of a weak spot. They circled slowly, unconsciously moving clockwise—the space between the bed and the wall just barely big enough for them to remain out of arm’s reach while doing so.

They lunged simultaneously.

They struggled in silence at first, a silence fraught with desperate tension and lust, a silence punctuated by deep grunts of physical exertion as they grappled. The Trucker’s hands were clenched around the Trooper’s bulging, flexing biceps as he tried to force him back. The younger man was doing the same with his hands placed on his adversary’s forearms, just below the elbow.

They circled again, tightly gripped in each other’s arms. When they made eye contact, they were only inches apart; the expressions of contemptuous lust was obvious. An impartial observer might have thought of Greco-Roman wrestling—except that both of these guys were so hard they were swordfighting, their cocks slapping together as they manhandled each other.

Then the Trooper twisted in the Trucker’s arms. Before the older man could react, the cop jerked his leg in a swift sidesweep and knocked his adversary’s feet out from under him. The Trucker hit the floor on his back, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could get it back, the solidly-muscled younger man threw himself down hard on top of him.

Now the Trucker had no air at all. As he fought to breathe, he saw the cop’s balled fist draw back and he knew it was aimed at his face.

Damned if he was gonna let it land there.

The Trooper released his roundhouse piledriver—back in the Academy, he’d knocked a combat instructor out cold with this move—expecting to end the battle. But the older man managed to get his hand up and deflect the blow. The Trooper had put too much force into it and overbalanced himself, falling forward onto the Trucker.

The Trucker had a snapshot visual of the scene: the rogue cop was lying face-down on top of him, his head next to the Trucker’s on the right side. His neck would have been directly on the Trucker’s neck if his right arm—the one he’d used to throw the punch—wasn’t between them.

He certainly wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. Wrapping a thick, muscular arm around the younger man’s neck, the Trucker applied as much pressure as he could.

It took a moment for the Trooper to realize the change in power structure. His first thought was to regain control, so he pushed back up off the predator. Well aware of the danger he was in, he felt a twinge of fear when he heard the older man gasp. It meant he was getting his air—and his wits—back.

And right now he had control over the Trooper. He was larger, too. This wasn’t just dangerous, this was deadly. He needed to keep calm and find a way out.

By twisting his head to one side, the Trooper managed to find a space in the crook of the Trucker’s arm where he could free his windpipe enough to inhale slight amounts of air.

The gun was on the far side of the Trucker. The Trooper lunged in the other direction, trying to reach his duty belt, even if he had to physically drag the larger man with him. He was strong enough to do it.

Scrabbling desperately at the carpet, the Trooper inched his way forward. The Trucker felt the younger man’s hard body twisting and struggling in his arms. Glancing up, he realized the cop’s fingers had come within reach of the baton.

The weapon would tip the balance of power back into the Trooper’s favor. They both knew it, and both reacted accordingly. The Trooper was able to grasp the side handle and actually pick up the baton. The Trucker drew his leg up under himself and pushed up, physically lifting both of them off the floor. As he gained his feet, he managed to keep the cop off his.

Fighting for balance, the Trooper was unable to aim his blows. He swung the baton forcefully but wildly. A couple of random blows struck the Trucker—not seriously, but painfully on the shoulder and across the chest.

Enraged, the Trucker grabbed at the baton, but the Trooper was swinging it too erratically. It was clear to the older man that he needed to disable his opponent as soon as possible or he would be in serious shit.

His strong, bulging arm was still wrapped around the Trooper’s neck. The Trucker twisted violently to the side and bent down, forcing the younger man to bend at the waist as well.

Drawing back his free arm, the Trucker began slamming his fist into the Trooper’s handsome face, repeatedly driving blow after brutal blow into the dazed cop’s face.

The Trooper was in pain and afraid—quite possibly for the first time in his life. His position of authority cowed most of the guys he’d come up against, and he’d been stronger and faster than the remaining few, overpowering them quickly.

This—this wasn’t supposed to be happening. He flailed with the baton, frantically trying to land a blow on his assailant while his face was being beaten to hamburger.

The Trucker had had enough. He spun the young man around so he stood, stunned and swaying, facing him. Looping his arm back, he pounded his fist with full force into the Trooper’s jaw, sending the cop flying backwards. He hit he bed and flipped over onto his back, losing his hold on the baton.

But the Trooper wasn’t out. Despite the pain in his swelling face, his training kicked in. Bringing his feet up and twisting slightly to the right, he managed to roll off the foot of the bed, putting some space between himself and the Trucker—a brief respite that wouldn’t last long, but might last long enough. He was young and strong and could recover quickly.

Shifting his balance quickly, like a feral cat, the lithe, muscular cop crouched at the foot of the bed. Noticing that the baton was on the floor not far away, he moved his arm towards it—slowly, so he wouldn’t alert the Trucker, who couldn’t see the baton from where he was standing.

Just as his fingers grasped the handle, the Trucker lunged. The younger stud leaped up from his crouching position, swinging the weapon and hoping to blindside his opponent. He did—not as completely as he’d hoped; he’d been hoping to go upside the psycho fucker’s head, but the hard-bodied older man turned slightly at the last moment and took the aluminum baton hard across the thick bicep of his dominant arm.

The Trooper had put a lot of energy in the blow—if he’d hit the dead twink in the bathroom that hard, he’d have shattered the bone. He didn’t come anywhere near close to doing that to the Trucker, but it was still a stunning, painful blow.

The Trucker was thrown off his game for a moment—and again, the younger man was able to use that brief pause to his advantage. Swiftly slipping behind the momentarily disabled man, the Trooper swung the baton out horizontally in front of the Trucker at neck level before catching the far end in the crook of his other elbow.

He immediately started to squeeze, garroting the older man with the shaft. The Trucker knew instantly what was happening. The little punk cop was trying to choke him into submission. He wasn’t gonna kill him, not yet—just weaken him to the point where he would be unable to resist whatever the Trooper wanted to do to him.

And he knew what the Trooper would do to him. It was the same thing he’d do to the younger man if he could manage to take him down.

The Trucker fought it. The crushing pain in his throat increased as he struggled harder, feeling the Trooper’s hard smooth chest tightly pressed against his back. Jerking his head back, his cheek brushed that of his assailant, his dark scruff scraping against the cop’s golden fuzz.

His ears were ringing and his vision was starting to dim—and again, he knew exactly what was happening. It wasn’t gonna happen to him, goddammit. This fucking cocksucker wasn’t gonna fuck him.

He twisted violently to the left, then abruptly reversed course, throwing himself back with his elbow out and jamming it into the Trooper’s abdomen. The younger man’s belly was smooth, firm, and flat, but it wasn’t strong enough to resist the brutal blow. With a loud, breathy grunt, the cop dropped the baton. It tumbled to the far corner of the bed, momentarily out of reach.

Both men fell gasping to their knees, the Trucker’s hand at his throat as he, starved for oxygen, inhaled greedily. Next to him—within arm’s reach, in fact—the Trooper was doubled up, his forehead almost touching the floor. In his crouching position, his calves bulged in the tight white tube socks.

Out of the corner of his right eye, the Trucker caught sight of the cop’s duty belt still lying on top of the nightstand. Forcing his bruised windpipe to relax and open, he gasped loudly and dove for the webbed tactical belt—there were things he could use on it. At the last second, the Trooper, alerted by the sound, noticed the Trucker’s lunge and willed himself upright to block his opponent.

They both got their hands on the belt simultaneously. Their eyes met for a moment; the pause could only have lasted a fraction of a second but the electric sexual tension between the nude muscular men crackled almost audibly. The flinty blue eyes of the younger man gleamed with rage, fear and lust—or were those reflections from the Trucker’s equally icy glare? It was impossible to tell, both muscular bodies, heaving with exertion and slick with sweat, exuded testosterone and manscent in a fog of hate-fueled lust.

The Trooper was younger, and that was to his advantage. He had slightly more energy and slightly faster reflexes.

What he didn’t have was experience. He’d killed before—the Trucker had figured that out by now—but not often. He’d probably taken out a few rentboys and drug addicts, youthful offenders who didn’t expect a sexual assault from that angle and were utterly unable to resist in any case, given the overpowering might of weapons the Trooper carried.

He wasn’t used to a battle for his life, and he was afraid. The Trucker was afraid, too; he knew exactly what was at stake. But the Trucker had enough control over himself to deal with the fear and move on. The Trooper got careless. In his panic, he telegraphed his moves with his eyes, glancing down at his arm before swinging it at the Trucker.

The older man took the hint and used it. As the blond youth, hair dark with sweat, jerked his fist at the Trucker’s face, the hard killer pulled his head back and brought his hand up against the Trooper’s head, hard, fast and strong.

Before the young cop knew what was happening, the Trucker had slammed his head down on the nightstand, completely stunning the hard-bodied youth. The Trooper grunted in pain, disoriented by the blow. The Trucker grabbed the duty belt and quickly began fumbling at the catch of the strap holding the pepper spray.

Suddenly, the belt was jerked out of his hands. Groaning audibly, the Trooper had managed to snatch the dangling end of the belt. Clinging to it, he fell to his knees, using his weight to yank it away from his assailant.

The Trucker looked down at the cop who swayed woozily on his knees. The cop looked wearily up at him and broke into a weary smile—and the Trucker noticed the punk had managed to get the pepper spray out.

There was no time to think. Again, the Trucker’s experience—aided by his reflexes and strength—held the advantage. He literally fell on the boy, his left knee striking the Trooper’s right arm hard enough to knock the pepper spray loose. The small canister rolled out of reach under the bed. At the same time, the older man grasped the killer cop’s head with both hands, slamming the psycho stud into the nightstand laterally. The blond muscled youth slumped unconscious to the floor.

The battle was over. Time for the games to begin.

The Trucker took a few moments to recover. He was a hard, strong man but this kid had been nearly his physical equal. He’d almost been beat. He’d almost been the meat. This fucker—this goddam cocksucking motherfucker!

The rage boiled over in him; he vented it by spitting on the cop’s head as the younger man lolled limply on the floor. The Trucker kicked the punk’s head, knocking it to one side. As he ground the sole of his foot into the slack face of the senseless youth, his cock began to swell and throb.

“Stupid piece of shit, thought you were gonna fuck me?” he hissed in a vindictive whisper. ”Oh fuck, dude, I got a first-class reservation in hell for you. Let’s get ya ready for the trip.”

Bending down, the Trucker grabbed the Trooper’s limp form under the arms and manhandled the firm, sweat-slicked body onto the bed. The older man’s rigid shaft pressed against the firm insensate torso, leaving a snail-like trail of clear precum across the inert cop’s smooth skin. He dropped the punk on his back on the bed like a sack of potatoes.

The duty belt was still on the floor. Retrieving it, the Trucker unsnapped the pocket holding the backup cuffs. He didn’t know where the key was, and he didn’t care. And by the time he was done, the Trooper would be long past caring whether his hands were cuffed or not.

Before then, however—remembering the fight the Trooper put up, the Trucker made sure his hands were firmly cuffed to each other around the tarnished faux-brass headboard. The cop lay splayed out, a muscular blond god bound for sacrifice.

The older man sneered down at his captive. “You fuckin’ worthless piece of shit,” he jeered, “yer gonna wake up to your worst nightmare.” Placing his large strong hands on the youth’s firm but supine form, the Trucker slowly caressed the hard, smooth chest. Sliding his hands down the sweaty flat stomach, he curled his fingers in the golden nest of pubes at the base of the Trooper long, flaccid shaft.

Digging his hands into the short wiry mass of hair, the Trucker sneered and yanked, hard. The punk cop was still out cold, but even in his unconsciousness, his thick cock jerked and throbbed. The older man, with his greater experience, knew what that meant. His malicious grin widened in anticipation. This psycho fucking cunt was into pain, all right—both giving and getting.

Well, good. Maybe tonight wasn’t gonna to be a total loss for him, the Trucker thought. Although, he had to admit, the well-built youth himself was gonna be a total loss. More precum dripped out of his pulsing dick.

Regaining some control, he continued fondling the cop’s body, running his hands down the thickly-muscled legs to the calves, where smooth skin gave way to the white tube socks just below the knee. Suddenly, the handsome blond shuddered and moaned, his eyelids fluttering as awareness began painfully to return.

“Welcome back, you sick fucking bastard,” the Trucker jeered, “ya ready for some fun? C’mon, fuckmeat, wakey, wakey. I wanna hear ya scream.” Rearing back his large hand, he bitchslapped the helpless youth, his palm leaving a large red imprint on the cop’s cheek.

The younger man blinked blearily and stared at the Trucker, his face a smooth dazed mask. As his memory returned, the color drained out of his face and was replaced with horror. Even as he began to jerk his arms frantically—and futilely—against his restraints, it was clear that he was fully aware of the situation.

Still, the sadistic older dude thought, nothing wrong with filling in the details. After all, he was sure, the budding serial killer would have some interest in his own demise. Might as well let him in on the fun—eventually.

First things first. The Trucker wanted to be fully inserted in the punk before he could tense up and fight the D. He wanted the strapping young man to struggle on his cock, but he wanted it all the way down his shaft.

Forcing the blond stud’s legs abruptly apart, he lunged forward, spearing the blond’s pulsing pink sphincter with virtually no warning. Before the writhing cop could react, the Trucker’s massive tool had plunged deep into his guts like a harpoon, the only lube being the slimy layer of precum oozing from the alpha’s cock—and blood, as the Trooper’s ass muscle was torn during the assault.

The Trooper opened his mouth wide and shrieked. The Trucker didn’t care. His usual caution had deserted him in his blinding anger against this arrogant piece of shit who dared to try to rape him. And in the back of his mind, he knew that the adjacent rooms were empty from when he’d brought that twink back—the one who was stiffening on the bathroom floor…

“Oh yeah! That’s it, cunt, lemme know how much ya like my cock, you fuckin’ psycho faggot! Go ahead and try to push it out, just like that, yeah, bitch—damn, I can feel your fuckhole strokin’ my shaft. Goddam, you’re a worthless excuse for a cop but you’re a great fuck—and we ain’t even started the fun stuff yet!”

Despite his agony, this remark caught the Trooper’s attention. His large blue eyes had been squeezed shut in pain, but now they opened wide. He wasn’t gonna think about the “fun”. He knew what he’d been planning to do to the killer stud when he got control—and he was sure this dude was gonna be even more extreme.

The Trucker noted the blond cop’s fear and grinned. The dead Marine’s dogtags danced and jingled before the captive youth’s eyes as the alpha continued to the thrust and pump, his hard, sweaty body in constant fluid motion.

“Ya get it, boy?” the Trucker hissed. “You’re my bitch now. I’m gonna use you like a cheap cumrag, you fuckin’ pervert homo cop. Ya like my shaft up your hole, ya piece of shit? Yeah? Then work it, cunt, work it like ya love it—or I’ll make ya work it.”

He leaned down over the Trooper, close enough to see the individual beads of sweat on the punk’s forehead, and whispered, “and if I make ya, it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt. I promise. Got it?”

The blond cop nodded, quickly and jerkily. He damn well knew it was gonna hurt. But he’d take the pain, he’d take all the pain if it meant a chance of getting out alive…

The Trucker chuckled. He had enough experience to know what was running through the fuckmeat’s mind. The hot hard youth would submit until he realized that there was no hope of survival. The Trucker, of course, would make sure that by the time his victim realized the truth, he’d have been tortured beyond the point of effective resistance.

Stupid fucker shoulda known better. He’d done this before. The Trucker was certain of it. Good—he was gonna enjoy this one so fucking much. Most of his victims hadn’t thought about death to any great extent; this one was just as turned on by it as he was.

This guy knew exactly what was happening to him as it happened. He didn’t just know what was being done to him, he knew why. He knew which physical response was associated with which form of trauma.

The Trooper had nowhere to hide. Unless his psyche shattered under the stress, he would be excruciatingly aware of the purpose behind every act of pain.

Placing his hands on the young cop’s broad, smooth, sweaty pecs, the Trucker braced himself as he ramped up the speed of his thrusting. His thick, engorged shaft plunged deep into the blond youth’s torn fuckhole in a split second; the swollen purple head caught against the rectal wall, scraping it agonizingly as it was viciously withdrawn with the force of a plunger.

The punk cop moaned and squealed in pain that bordered on agony—and pleasure. He was terrified, not just afraid of getting raped and murdered, but of liking the sensation of tortuous agony so much that he assisted with his own death. He couldn’t let it happen, he couldn’t be found like this…

He began to resist. He jerked his hard muscled arms forcefully but futilely against the case-hardened steel cuffs that bound him to the bed. The jingling of the Trucker’s dogtags was drowned out by the clanging sounds of the cuffs against the cheap brass-colored aluminum headboard.

“Get off me, you sick fucking lunatic!” he barked, finding his voice. “You ain’t gonna be the man who takes me down!”

The Trucker smiled gently down into the writhing cop’s face, watching it twist and darken in a rage fueled by fear. The punk could yell all he wanted; nobody could hear him and he had no way out.

Of course, it might not be a bad idea to remind him of the latter fact.

“You’re already down, cunt,” the buff older man whispered. The effect was more chilling than if he’d snarled in anger. “Only question, is how long it’s gonna take you to die on my cock. Your fuckhole ain’t tight enough, you faggot—you been getting’ banged a lot? Bendin’ over and takin’ the dick during them all-night orgies at the trooper barracks? Bet ya let every one of them cops ride yer ass, huh, you worthless homo slut?”

The Trooper rose to the bait, kicking and jerking—and clenching his sphincter. His muscles grew tense in an involuntary rage response, causing him to clamp his colon down on the Trucker’s thick, pulsating shaft. “GET OFF ME YOU SICK FUCK!!!” he screeched, unaware that the horrible intensification of pain in his ass was his own fault.

The Trooper thrashed wildly, his hard body sliding on a sheen of sweat under the Trucker’s hands. The alpha rapist could feel the younger man’s tight pectoral muscles working under his smooth flesh as he struggled uselessly to free himself. His long, thick legs wrapped around the Trucker’s before the cop bent his knees and tried to get his feet up under his assailant’s body to lift him off.

“Stupid piece a’ shit, you should know better than that,” the Trucker snapped harshly before backhanding the Trooper across the face. It was an effective ploy; the pain in his handsome but already bruised face made the youth pause and gave the Trucker time to lay his full weight on top of the cop, using gravity to add momentum to his thrust and jamming his engorged shaft deep inside the Trooper’s guts.

The young blond howled in agony, his mind floundering in such agony that he—almost—didn’t register the sensation of the Trucker’s slick flat belly pressed against his own, both sliding together in warm, erotic contact. There was a scraping pain at each end, though, as the wiry hair on the alpha’s abdomen scoured his skin and the darker pubic hair of the older man tore at his own blond curls.

The cop’s heart constricted in terror when he felt something cold circling his neck. Even though, deep in his dark, twisted soul, he knew how this would end, his conscious mind still expected to break free. He couldn’t die. But if it was starting—

Then he realized that the Trucker’s dogtags had settled on his chest and slid up to his neck. He felt a relief that had no basis in reality and was untinged with the memory of what had happened to the original owner of the tags…

The Trucker, meanwhile, was balls-deep in the Trooper, his huge rod reaming out the punk’s colon. The cop’s sphincter had finally given in and relaxed; the young man was accepting the dick.

And that was so disappointing.

“Yer lettin’ me down, cunt,” he snarled. Gripping the cop’s jaw with excruciating force, he held the Trooper’s face still and spitting into it. “Ya can’t even get fucked right, can ya, you worthless psycho faggot? Your pansy ass won’t even grab my tool anymore—guess you took so many cocks up yer ass you wore it out, huh? What’d ya do, homo, man the gloryhole at the barracks? Gotta get ya tight again, dude.”

Despite his arrogance, his certainty of his own importance, the Trooper whimpered slightly at these words. He knew how the Trucker was gonna get him tight.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that his life flashed before his eyes—what flashed before them were visions of his own snuffs. There had only been a couple—well, three, if you count that teen who fled into the woods; he shot the punk in the line of duty and only fucked his corpse afterward.

The other two, also young teens, had been more deliberate. He’d found them just out walking around, picking them up on a pretense so he could cuff them and throw them into the back of his car. A quick trip out into the desert, a quick tussle with a helpless kid, “two pumps, a tickle and a squirt”, as they say.

Then he would strangle them slowly. Even though he’d just cum, his dick would get hard again during the snuff. As the kid died, the Trooper would shoot all over him. The body would get shoved into a dry run in the desert; within days there’d be nothing left.

And now it was gonna happen to him. And the deathpig stirred within and started to respond. Even in his fear, the grim promise rumbling deep in the Trucker’s bass voice sent an electric thrill to the base of his cock. As his large shaft stiffened and began to stand erect, the Trooper felt betrayed by his own body.

But he still couldn’t be found like this. Whatever his dick wanted, he couldn’t be humiliated like this—even if he had to humiliate himself now. He faced the Trucker directly, tears filling his bright blue eyes. “Please, man, don’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ll do anything ya want, man just don’t kill me. Ya wanna shit on me? Ya wanna piss in my mouth? I’ll do it all, dude, I’ll do anything you want, please don’t kill me, man, I won’t tell anyone, I swear, dude, fuck, please—“

The youth broke off, sobbing as the older man glared coldly down at him. Sneering slightly, he spit into the cop’s face again, then rose up on his knees, his rod still plugging the Trooper’s rectum. He looked around languidly, taking his time, knowing that escape was impossible. A disturbingly malicious grin formed on his face as he spotted the black webbed duty belt on the nightstand.

The Trooper’s cock was only half-erect when he opened his tear-rimmed eyes. He saw the grin and knew what the Trucker was looking at. He was still soft enough to lose control and have it show.

He pissed on himself. Not a lot, but a couple of golden splashes across his belly that ran off in rivulets to soak into the sheets, already moist with sweat and semen.

The Trucker threw his head back and laughed. Still chuckling, he leaned forward and grabbed the belt. It was thick, about an inch and a half. He knew from experience that the thinner the garrote, the easier it is to strangle someone.

This was gonna be slow. The cop was gonna take a long, long time to die. And best of all—the motherfucker knew it. He understood. To the Trucker, that mattered. He wasn’t just raping the Trooper’s ass, he was raping his mind at the same time.

He held the duty belt in front of the punk’s dazed face. “Ya see this? Wanna see what it feels like around your neck? I sure the fuck do, meat. I bet it’s gonna feel fuckin’ great—for me. For you, it’s gonna hurt like holy fucking hell. And your pain it gonna feel so motherfuckin’ good on my cock. And guess what? If ya make me cum before ya die, I might let ya live. So work my cock, you goddam homo cuntmeat, work it like your life depends on it—cause, trust me, it does.”

The muscled blond cop, confronted with the belt held in front of his face by the Trucker’s muscled arms, regressed into his mind, trying to escape the obvious implications. It required an almost deliberate shutdown of consciousness—a very bad idea. After all, his nervous system was still working perfectly—and with nothing else to focus on, physical sensation became everything.

And everything quickly became nightmarish.

Slowly, almost tenderly, the Trucker leaned forward and draped the belt lightly on the Trooper’s throat. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, the hot young cop turned his head to the left and gulped. He tensed momentarily in fear—not long, but long enough for the older man to feel a certain velvety constriction around his pumping shaft. He grinned again. This one was gonna be good. The meat was both aware and responsive.

“Yeah, pig, you’re gonna love this, ain’t ya?” he whispered. “Fuckin’ homo cop, you liked banging and wastin’ helpless kids and now you’re gonna get to find out what they went through. How ya like that shit, ya sick fuck? Huh? Goddam, lookit yer dick—gettin’ hard already. Can’t wait to see how horny ya get when we really start rockin’ and rollin’, bitch—let’s find out!”

Moving slowly and sensually, the Trucker wrapped the belt around the Trooper’s throat, at one point gripping the buzz-cut cop’s head tightly in his big paw so he could slide the belt under his neck. Suddenly, the blond youth could no longer ignore what was happening to him.

The sensation of webbed nylon looping around his throat was terrifying and he tensed up. But tensing suddenly made the terrible reaming pain in his ass intensify as his torn sphincter tightened around the Trucker’s dick. His huge blue eyes, circled with dark rings of shock, opened wide as he gasped and inhaled jerkily.

The Trucker’s grinning face was inches from his; the Trooper could feel the panting breath of the older man plowing his ass. Sweat tricked down the alpha’s cheeks, slipping under the black goatee and snagging on the scruff of five o’clock shadow darkening the killer’s hard face. He was close enough that the dogtags weren’t dangling; they’d settled on the cop’s broad chest and bounced a jingling accompaniment to each excruciating thrust.

He’d gotten the belt completely around the Trooper’s neck, letting it lie loosely as he rose back up on his knees. His cock started sliding out of the youth’s traumatized fuckhole. He stopped his withdrawal at the last moment, leaving just his swollen purple head inside the blond’s quivering sphincter. The Trooper was shuddering and gasping, emitting a low whining sound with each breath.

In some recess of his mind, the perverted young cop knew that he needed to keep control, that this psycho was feeding off his reactions. He fought violently against himself, realizing that the more obvious it was that this dude was causing him pain, the more pain the dude would cause.

But he couldn’t. That was the real nightmare. He knew what it would take to mitigate the pain but he couldn’t control himself to get there. It hurt too fucking much.

The Trucker only got harder as he watched the struggle play out in front of his face. “Boy,” he chuckled, “this ain’t nothin’. In five minutes you’re gonna think this pain is a kiss from momma. In fifteen minutes you ain’t gonna remember this pain. And in half an hour, you ain’t gonna remember your momma.”

The older man loomed over the bound youth, a wild grin twisting his chiseled face. A gleeful light of lust danced in his eyes, heating the cold blue irises until they glittered in a way that terrified the helpless young psychopath. The Trooper hadn’t known that the same gleam of insanity had helped demoralize his own victims—but now that he was on the receiving end, the impact was like a direct punch to the face.

Reason—at least such reason as the perverted lawman possessed—wouldn’t help here. He’d already known he couldn’t break free of the case-hardened steel clamped painfully around his wrists. Now it was horribly obvious that he couldn’t talk his way out of the situation as well. Nothing, not even begging, was going to help. He was utterly within the Trucker’s mercy.

And he was sure the sadistic bastard had no mercy.

He was right.

The dogtags struck his chin as the older man drew closer. The Trooper didn’t look away; his eyes were drawn to those of his rapist’s as if he was being hypnotized by a snake. He was aware of movement, feeling the Trucker’s hard, rough hands sliding down his body, smearing his sweat over his smooth flesh like an oil rubdown.

The muscular blond punk shuddered in erotic terror as the alpha fondled his thick pecs, callused palms scraping over the Trooper’s painfully stiff and sensitive nipples. Despite himself, the helpless rogue cop moaned, softly and breathily. The pressure of the killer’s hands slipped down to his flat belly; the bound youth could trace the downward movement growing closer and closer to his throbbing dick.

The Trucker noticed the Trooper’s cock, straining and painfully erect. He slowly ran his hands down to the meat’s groin, curling his fingers in the golden nest of curly hair. As he had earlier, the older man yanked the pubes—but this time the bitch was awake. The boy groaned and writhed on the sheets, sliding on a film of body fluids. His shaft twitched and began oozing.

“Yeah, I thought so, cocksucker,” sneered the Trucker. “Ya wanna get hurt, dontcha, cunt? You’re into the pain, huh, you worthless fuckin’ pig? Yeah? Ya like it?” He leaned forward and slapped the Trooper, hard. The younger man gasped at the fresh pain in his already battered and bruised face; with his eyes closed, he hadn’t seen the blow coming.

The Trooper’s expression of hurt and disappointment triggered something deep within the Trucker. All he’d done was keep his cock plugged in the meat’s ass while groping the fucker’s body—and the piece of shit thought he was gettin’ romanced!

“What, motherfucker, ya thought I was fallin’ in love with you, you perverted fuckin’ faggot? Thought you could worm your way out like that? Holy shit, dude, you ain’t even got me drippin’ again yet. You’re boring me. Time to make you into meat.”

He hunched over the blond boy yet again, abruptly this time, his dogtags striking the fuckmeat right in the face, make the Trooper grunt and flinch. Slowly and deliberately, the Trucker’s hands crept toward the loose ends of the duty belt which was still wound around the cop’s throat.

The Trooper had indeed surrendered to a fantasy similar to the one the Trucker had imagined; it was based on a combination of physical lust and mortal terror, as if he knew his last chance for survival depended on establishing an emotional contact with his killer—a contact possible only in his fear-borne delusion.

Now cold hard realty was approaching with a horrifying inevitability. Those hands, that sensation of rough nylon around his throat… A slow, agonizing death was coming and the suffering was gonna be unimaginable and the humiliation and the– And the—

And why the fuck was dick still hard and pulsating?

The Trucker knew why. He’d lowered himself gradually onto the meat’s hard body, feeling the young man squirm under him. The cop’s cock felt like a hot rod of iron laid flat against his belly; even through his fur, he could feel the throbbing heat of the swollen shaft of flesh lying along his abdomen.

The meat liked it. He could scream and struggle and curse as much as he liked, but deep in his sick little pig soul, the thought of his own rape and strangulation got him horny as fuck.

Nothing left to wait for, then, really. The Trucker wrapped the ends of the belt around his hands and began to pull. He didn’t put a lot of effort into it at first, just enough to get the homo deathpig started.

The Trooper reacted instantly. The Trucker wasn’t actually choking him yet; with some effort, he could still breathe. But the collision of his greatest fear and his greatest desire tripped a panic response. Squealing shrilly, the muscled stud began to twist, flailing his legs against the alpha’s heaving, pumping flanks. His struggle provided a staccato background rhythm of slapping, firm smooth flesh against flesh.

The Trucker snarled, the high-pitched keening of his victim irritating him. “Jesus,” he hissed, “if you’re gonna squeal like a dying pig, you’re gonna be a dying pig.” His biceps bulged as he applied torque to the belt, watching the webbing compress as it tightened around the Trooper’s throat.

The hard-bodied cop opened his mouth widely, his face frozen in horror as he tried vainly to gulp for air. His body went rigid instinctively, clenching his rectum around the sadistic older man’s pulsating shaft.

Grinning, he spit into the Trooper’s swelling, darkening face. The younger man’s rigidity was starting to pass; his firm, limber legs began to beat at the Trucker’s thighs while his twisting arms made the cuffs clank against the headboard loud enough to drown out the killer’s grunting and the thick gagging sounds scraping out of the fucktoy’s blocked windpipe.

The rogue cop felt an intolerable pressure building in his head, a hot dark pounding pressure that filled his consciousness—no, not quite. There was other pain, more pain. His chest, that wasn’t pressure. It was more like a vacuum generated in his lungs; it felt like his chest was gonna explode. And the horrible plunging and reaming in his ass—the pain was merging, flowing into a tsunami of agony threatening to drag him under.

As great black blooms burst in his field of vision, the young man’s fading vision focused on his killer’s chest, fur matted with sweat, tensing and straining with the effort of choking his life out. The Trooper’s ears filled with a loud buzzing and suddenly he fell back into dark pit, a pit lined with pain…

Seeing that his prey had lost consciousness, the Trucker loosened the belt slightly. Not a lot, of course; just enough to let the limp hard-bodied punk gasp involuntarily for air, his body shuddering in effort on the alpha’s tool.

Grinning and pumping, the alpha observed the meat’s face starting to resume normal proportions and coloration. The breathing became less ragged and the tight firm body under his slowed in its struggles. As the punk’s eyelids began fluttering with returning awareness, the Trucker spit in his victim’s face almost casually before he started slapping it.

“C’mon, you worthless fuck, you can take more than that. I ain’t even gotten started pounding yer fuckhole cunt—ya gotta keep up with me, dude.”

The Trooper gave a faint gurgling sound; he was awake now. His tender, abused colon was still getting mercilessly plowed but he could breathe—and understand. He heard the Trucker.

“Man, I told ya I’d let ya live if you got me off before I whacked ya. Had no idea you were such a fucking weak-ass pansy homo. You keep tryin’ to check out while I’m ballin’ ya, I’m gonna get pissed and make sure it hurts, bitch,” the Trucker barked in anger. “So how about a little incentive, huh? Tell ya what, ya fuckin’ sick sack a’ shit, if you die before I’m done with ya, I’m gonna leave your body spread on the bed with your nightstick rammed up your ass like a fuckin’ popsicle stick, ya feelin’ me, fag? Get what I’m sayin? All yer motherfuckin’ cop buddies are gonna that you got used real good before you were put down.”

The Trucker tensed up on the ends of the belt, pulling it taut but not flush. “Good, meat,” he hissed, his eyes glittering with rage and lust, “beg me for your life. You’ve killed, aintcha? I know. You’ve snuffed a bitch. Beg for your life, cunt, beg like your boys begged you. Lemme hear their words outta your mouth, motherfucker.”

The Trooper’s eyes welled with tears as he heard the words, but at the same time, the older man increased the speed and depths of his thrusts. As his cock sank deeper into the blond cop’s ass, the helpless stud cried aloud before dropping into a subdued blubbering. “Goddam worthless faggot, you really are fuckin’ useless, aintcha, cocksucker?” snarled the furious alpha. “If your life ain’t worth beggin’ for, I guess it ain’t worth shit, huh?” He yanked the belt as hard as he could, clamping his victim’s windpipe shut.

Again, the reaction was immediate. The cop’s low wailing ceased instantly, replaced with a thick moist gagging noise. The muscled punk bent and twisted like a bull, tying to buck the Trucker off. The Trooper still had enough strength to bend his back up off the bed, even with the older man lying on top of him.

It was a bad idea. He couldn’t remain in that contorted position for long; he collapsed back onto the bed in a few seconds. The drop was enough to cause the killer to lose his balance, just for a moment, but it was enough to loosen the belt. Again, not a good thing. At the same time as the constriction around his throat eased, the weight of the Trucker on his chest made him exhale, not inhale. What little reserve of oxygen had remained in his lungs was now expelled.

Before he had a chance to gasp in another breath, the alpha regained control and cinched down the belt again. “Smooth move, you stupid motherfucker,” sneered the Trucker, “really fucked up, dintcha? And ya didn’t even knock my cock outta yer ass!” The older man threw his dark head back and laughed aloud.

He’d cut off the meat’s air, but hadn’t pulled it tight—really tight. Looking down at the writhing youth under him, the Trucker watched the meat’s handsome face slowly swell and darken. He knew the pressure was going to continue to build inside his victim, inescapable pain and pressure—and he knew the faggot cunt knew it too.

The boy’s panic was obvious in his protruding eyes; he seemed oblivious to the way his fuckhole was stroking his killer’s cock, but his firm smooth thighs frantically slapping against those of the older man were a sign of his desperation. Despite the flailing of his legs, though, the white tube socks continued to cling tightly to his muscled calves.

The Trooper actually could feel his assailant’s engorged shaft plugging his colon—in fact, every movement he made caused unspeakable agony in his ass as the huge rod, rigid as iron, tore at his rectal lining. But his chest was exploding and his skull was imploding as screaming darkness closed in. The blond lawman realized that parts of his brain were starting to die; the pain of the rape was, had to be, utterly insignificant, crowded out by the terror and agony of death.

Sliding into crisis mode, the cop’s lithe, developed body shuddered, his legs wrapping tightly around his killer’s broad, heaving back. At the same time, the alpha rested his entire weight on top of the meat so he could wrap the belt around his hand one more time, tightening it even further. Both hard-bodied men were now quivering in a warm, moist embrace, fur grinding over smooth flesh on a film of sweat being wrung out of the dying punk.

The room echoed with the sounds of rape and snuff. Loudest of all was the clanging of the meat’s handcuffs on the headboard as his arms jerked frantically. The violent arching of his back was responsible for the next sound—the Trucker’s dogtags jangling as he held onto his convulsing fucktoy. The slapping of slick flesh was almost inaudible under the loud grunting coming from both—the alpha’s in effort and the meat’s involuntarily as froth oozed from his mouth.

The Trucker’s face was just inches away from that of his fucktoy. He was able to observe the physical effects of slow, traumatic strangulation at close range. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the heady scent of sex and death, pheromones and testosterone and mansweat. Beneath him, the young blond was almost unrecognizable.

Swelling and darkening again, the punk’s face became grotesque as his eyes bulged horribly, reddening with petechial hemorrhages. The fuckmeat’s tongue, thick and purple like the head of a dick, emerged from his blue lips, lube by the foam bubbling out of his blocked windpipe.

When the Trooper went under, his eyes rolled back until nothing but blood-shot whites showed under his long fluttering lashes. The Trucker immediately slackened the belt; the meat gasped thickly in an involuntary scramble for air. The older dude grinned and remained still; for the moment, he didn’t need to do more.

The psycho lawman jerked and inhaled arrhythmically. As he struggled involuntarily to pump enough oxygen through his system to prevent irreversible brain trauma, his colon still maintained a tight, velvety grip on the alpha’s sensitive shaft. Each gag, every cough vibrated through the Trooper’s firm, muscled body. At some point, each traumatic retching gasp rippled through the meat’s rectum and stroked his rapist’s tool.

“Ya back yet, cunt?” he hissed. “Fuckin’-A, you useless pervert, you still ain’t got me off yet!”

The Trooper clawed his way back up a razor-lined shaft into reality, the returning of awareness a long painful process. His vision was cloudy, his hearing intermittent. His sense of touch—his sense of sense, so to speak—that worked. Oh fuck, it still worked…

He hadn’t know how oxygen deprivation increased sensitivity as nerve ends began to die. His own victims—the agony they must have experienced as they died…

Despite the crushing pain of getting throttled until he lost consciousness, despite the deep slashing pain in his ass, the understanding of the horror he’d inflicted on those kids he’d wasted had a physical impact.

He got hard.

The Trucker noticed—and the Trooper noticed he noticed. It was a brutal slap of reality; he remembered what was happening. He went limp.

The Trucker was furious.

“What the fuck ya need, cumsucker—pain? That it? You a pain pig? Fuck yeah, dude, didn’t know ya had it in ya! You like to get hurt, huh? Saddle up, you motherfuckin’ faggot, I’ll hurt ya so fuckin’ bad you’ll cum!” he snarled in rage, spit flying from his lips. The sadistic alpha gave the belt one last twist around the frantic punk’s neck, cinching it agonizingly before transferring both ends to his left hand. He wrapped them around his palm so he could grip them in one hand without slackening the wide ligature sunk painfully into the fucker’s taut throat.

The muscled killer’s right arm was free. He made use of it immediately, piledriving his rock-hard fist into the meat’s firm belly. The pain-wracked youth tried instinctively to curl into a fetal position, but the weight of his well-built rapist kept him pinned to the bed. He could only writhe and shudder on the damp sheets as tears oozed from his bulging eyes.

“Goddam, fuckmeat, that did ya some good—I felt that all the way down my dick. That’s what ya like, ya fuckin’ psycho homo pervert, huh? You just need a good beatdown. Here ya go, cunt!” the Trucker growled, repeating the blow. “Yeah, that’s it, bitch, lookit your hard dick slappin’ against me—worthless faggot pain pig!” Another gutpunch, and another. Each time the killer grunted as the blunt force reverberated through his victim’s traumatized body and flowed down his rectum, tightening his asshole.

The Trooper was almost beyond rational thought. A vast fog enveloped his mind, a screaming, pounding silence deafened him—but it was the pain that overshadowed all. His stomach was strong and firm, the smooth skin rippled with muscles, but he’d already suffered so much that even his hard, developed torso was unable to withstand the attack.

The fog was turning into a hot black wave. Something else he hadn’t known—he’d always thought being strangled would be a cold death but it wasn’t. His victims—that first one in the back of the cop car—he’d sweated like a hog as the Trooper choked him. At the time, he thought the kid was on crack.

The hot darkness was penetrated by lightning—each time he was punched, the older man’s fist sank deep into his guts, just above the point where the man’s cock was impaling his innards. Everything—oh fuck, everything—his chest, his ass, his head, it all hurt. Fiery numbness froze his bound hands; his arms twitched convulsively, making the cuffs clang rhythmically against the headboard. He couldn’t hear it.

As his swollen, congested face darkened, white froth bubbled past his protruding tongue. It slid across his snot-smeared face, now grotesquely twisted. He wasn’t aware of the details, though; his head was one source of pain among many. His ass, oh fuck, his ass, his dick…

His dick. As black cacophony took him under, he could still sense his rod, erect and straining to an unbearable extent. He was dying and he was so hard it hurt; it wasn’t fair…but those boys he’d wasted, they’d gone hard as they died…now it was happening to him…hot dark screaming pain…no, wait…

The Trucker almost missed the signal. The meat’s cock was slapping against his furry belly as the motherfucker’s lights went out; it was only when precum began to splatter across his chest that he realized he’d taken the cop closer to death than he wanted. He unwound the belt from his left hand right away. The blond stud writhed and convulsed beneath him, his fuckhole stroking the alpha’s huge engorged shaft.

“C’mon back, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” the Trucker whispered to the youth as he coughed and gagged. Somewhere along the line—the Trucker didn’t notice exactly when and didn’t care—the fuckmeat regained consciousness. The rogue cop’s slow and painful climb back to reality was accompanied by a background of abuse.

“Wake the fuck up, you punk-ass cocksucker. C’mon, bitch, milk my fuckin’ shaft. I’m done fuckin’ around with ya. Remember when I told ya I’d let ya live if you managed to get me off? I lied, faggot. Only reason you’re still alive is cause I haven’t cum yet.”

By now the Trooper was fully awake; at least, as awake as he’d ever be again. After all, he’d been without oxygen for extended periods twice now. Things were fuzzy around the edges…

No. The pain, that was as sharp as ever.

“Ok, you disgusting pervert, I’m gonna wipe your stain off this planet. Ya feel me, motherfucker? This time it’s gonna be for real. See, I’m gonna make you hurt so bad you’ll make me blow my load just so I’ll end your pain. You thought you were man enough to take me down, you fuckin’ queerboy? I bet every real man in the barracks knew you were a homo cocksucker!”

He bent down over the dazed youth, dropping his dogtags into his smeared red face. The Trucker’s eyes glinted with an icy, malevolent glee as he whispered into the blond punk’s ear, “and if they don’t know it now, I’ll make sure they find out. I’m gonna leave your reamed-out corpse right here, bound to this cum-soaked bed with your own cuffs. They’re gonna know you got fucked in the ass, cause I’m gonna leave yer nightstick in it, shoved up to the hilt. Bet that turns ya on, you disgusting pig, huh”

The Trooper cringed and blubbered, coughing up blood-streaked phlegm from his damaged windpipe. He was alive and aware—and wishing he wasn’t. The pain was still there.

What little of him was left was focused on breathing; an excruciating experience on its own. Each desperate gasp for air was like inhaling razor blades. The hammering in his skull was unbearable; the knowledge that he was hearing the desperate beat of his pulse as his heart struggled in vain to pump oxygen to his brain only terrified him even more—and made his heart speed up.

His chest felt like it was imploding; a vacuum of agonizing force was centered there. As the Trooper’s eyes became less dim (and as they sank back into their orbits, his vision became less distorted), he could see the older man’s face leering down at him in contemptuous lust. Sweat trickled down the Trucker’s cheek, the beads disappearing into the scruff darkening the killer’s firm jawline.

The blond youth gagged and coughed repeatedly. If his need for air hadn’t been so desperate—and his airway so traumatized—he would have been screaming. The grotesque impaling sensation in his colon had never dimmed; it was just that now the agony of actual death was fading. There was nothing else to compete with the feeling of the alpha’s swollen tool rammed deep into his guts, tearing him open inside.

The Trooper shook his head frantically but was still incapable of articulate speech. Grunts and gurgles bubbled out of his throat in a blood-streaked foam. His barely-functioning mind was in chaos; his thoughts were incompatible with each other.

He wanted to end the pain. He wanted to die; that was the only way to end it.

He wanted to obey. He wanted to work his ass muscles to make his top cum; he just didn’t know how.

He wanted to kill this motherfucker. He wanted to make him suffer this pain; the serial killer in him was still alive.

He wanted to shoot his load. He wanted to give up his life seed as he slipped into death; it was what he’d wanted all along.

Glaring down into his victim’s face, the Trucker already knew what was running through what was left of his mind. He was experienced; they always went through something like this as they trembled on the edge of their blackest desire. Fuckin’ deathpigs—not even grateful when you give ‘em what they want.

And although the Trooper didn’t know it yet, three outta four ain’t bad.

“One.”

The muscled top started the countdown. The bound lawman knew what it meant.

“Two.”

The cop tried to ignore the words. He clenched his eyes closed again, retreating into himself the same way he’d done at the start. Problem was, this time he already knew what his assailant was capable of.

“Three.”

In a panic, he began flexing his rectum, trying to constrict his sphincter. There had to be a way out—if he could just get more time…

“Four.”

It wasn’t enough for the fucker. There had to be more he could do—but it hurt, oh god, his ass hurt so fuckin’ bad, this guy was tearing him open, each movement was ripping his tender flesh deep inside…

“Five. Time to die, faggot.”

Some deep, hidden part of the Trooper’s psyche heard the words and responded by overriding every reflex of pain or fear that would prevent an erection. As the webbed nylon belt constricted around his throat again, the bound muscular cop felt his cock rise up, painfully rigid and oozing an almost steady stream of precum.

All his cocky arrogance had been wrung out of him, oozing out with his sweat and pain. He his brain was full of an icy fog that paralyzed his will; he was terrified of his hard-on—he knew it was only gonna become more agonizing as the spark of life was throttled out of him—but he was past the point of active resistance.

The Trucker leaned back, stretching his arm out. Feeling around behind himself, the alpha retrieved the nightstick. He held it front of the Trooper, his other hand holding the belt taut but not tight around the meat’s neck. He laid the baton down next to the blond’s head; if the cunt turned to the right, he’d see it. And the killer could tell by his victim’s expression that the punk hadn’t forgotten where the Trucker was gonna leave it.

The muscular stud jerked on the belt pulling the Trooper roughly up off the bed. Inhaling deeply, he hocked a huge wad of phlegm onto the stunned cop’s face, wiping it over the youth’s swollen, tear-slicked cheeks with his strong, rough paw.

The young man grimaced blearily. The Trucker dropped him back onto the bed and took the ends of the belt in both hands. His huge rod, still plugging the fucktoy’s ass, pulsed warmly and wetly in anticipation. He paused—cruelly, just to let the tension build.

The Trooper was undergoing an agonizing epiphany, an approach to understanding the nightmarish erotic pain to which he’d subjected two innocent teenage boys. He was sinking into a dull haze, hypnotized by the dancing flashes of light reflecting off the dogtags dangling from the Trucker’s thick neck…

For a moment, there was no sound in the room but that of two well-built men panting with lustful exertion. As the funk of sweat, testosterone and old cum intensified, the Trucker broke the silence with a whisper. “Third time’s the charm, fuckin’ homo cunt.”

He abruptly yanked his arms, jerking the belt tight around his meat’s throat. The fucker leaped like a fish on a line, snapped out of his daze by the crushing pain in his esophagus and the now-familiar crushing agony in his chest and his head. “Fuck yeah, bitch,” the Trucker hissed through gritted teeth, “now you’re working my cock. That’s it, fight it, faggot. C’mon, kick and twitch on my dick, motherfucker!”

The alpha lowered his head until his face was inches from the Trooper. His expression twisted into sneering sexual contempt as he watched the blond youth’s face darken through shades of red and violet. The serial killer wanna-be, helpless and struggling, began oozing drool from the side of his mouth as his tongue protruded, as purple and swollen as the head of his cock, bobbing in the air—and also oozing.

Grinning hatefully, the scruffy top pulled hard on the belt, causing his rock-hard biceps to bulge. The thick black nylon webbing circling the rogue cop’s neck sank in deeply. The punk’s eyes opened wide and he began flailing and coughing in a frantic and futile attempt to inhale; he didn’t manage to do more than spit up wads of white foam.

“Does it hurt yet, cunt?” leered the older man, slightly panting his words out as he kept the pressure on his meat’s windpipe. “Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it? You know, you worthless piece of shit, you know how good it feels. You know how fuckin’ hot it is to waste someone while you’re banging ‘em, yeah? Now you get ta feel what it’s like to be the fuckpig—told ya it was gonna be yer lucky motherfuckin’ day, didn’t I, huh?”

The Trooper knew. Even in the involuntary convulsions of imminent death he hadn’t forgotten the feeling of raping and snuffing those soft smooth boys—and this was what they’d endured, the little cumsacks…

But he’d been right about his dick. It hurt—oh fuck, how it hurt, so hard and engorged it felt like it was gonna split… But he couldn’t help it. Throughout the entire ordeal, the Trucker had never pulled out of the young man’s ass—and now he was back to reaming it like a plumber’s snake. Every thrust was like a direct punch to his prostate. Every thrust caused another agonizing, uncontrollable throb in his swollen shaft.

As the Trucker maintained the tightness of the belt by brute strength, the hard-bodied youth writhed beneath him, his smooth flesh sliding around on yet another film of death-sweat slowly being squeezed out of him. His firm, muscular legs wrapped around his killer’s waist with an involuntary vice-like grip, his white tube socks somehow still clinging to his thick calves as his feet kicked desperately at the dominant alpha’s pumping ass.

The Trooper’s arms jerked arrhythmically, clanging the handcuffs against the headboard, the jagged tempo increasing as his convulsion became more acute. His entire intestinal tract spasmed violently in organ failure; the older man grunted in pleasure as the homo punk’s colon massaged his thick rod. The meat’s sphincter tightened around the root of his dick like a cockring.

“Fuckin’ die, you faggot pervert, die on my dick!” the Trucker growled as he sped up his thrusts, driving his enormous shaft deep into the youth’s twitching guts. The young handsome blond was almost unrecognizable now, his face horrifyingly black and distorted—but he wasn’t dead yet.

Some parts of his brain were shutting down but as dark fireworks burst silently in front of his swollen, blood-shot eyes, he was still aware enough to realize that oxygen deprivation was again inducing hypersensitivity in his traumatized anus. That was why it felt like this psycho stud’s massive tool had a barbed head that was slashing at his rectum…

But knowing the cause didn’t lessen the agony.

As death closed in, the Trooper felt waves of nightmarish knife-like pain roll across his muscular form. He knew he was convulsing, his thick, strong limbs shuddering. His legs, clamped like scissors around the alpha’s heaving, sweaty flanks, kicked futilely in the air while his quivering arms beat an accompaniment of clanking metal to his final moments.

He’d been right—the heat had seeped out of him with his pheromone-soaked sweat. Death was dark and cold, promising and icy release from the torture he was enduring, but the white-hot burning sensation in his cock was getting more intense with each passing second.

And the seconds themselves seemed to slow down. Over the pounding of his pulse, the frenetic tempo of his heart trying to push oxygen that wasn’t there, the young cop heard his killer speak. The words were low and long, like a slowed-down film.

“Ya fuckin’ useless pig—thought you were gonna fuck me? Looks like you were wrong—dead wrong, cunt. And now yer buddies are gonna find ya with cum up your ass, rammed home with your own nightstick. I’ll make sure to leave you with your legs spread wide so they can see what a slut you were, faggot.”

The Trooper was almost gone; the words worked their way through his dying brain like bubble through molasses. He could still grasp their import but was incapable of acknowledging it with anything more than dull despair. The slashing agony in his fuckhole seared its way up the root of his dick, a solid spike of horribly erotic pain beyond his experience.

Deep within the pig part of his mind, the part that was wallowing in the black mud of helpless rape and murder, he could feel that part of his oozing, straining hard-on was inspired by his realization of what his victims had suffered. The sick bastard, getting snuffed himself, was hard at the full understanding of the torture he’d inflicted on his own victims.

Of course, he still hadn’t gone all the way. He hadn’t made the full journey into the dark.

With a loud grunt, the Trucker put all his muscle into tightening the belt, pulling so hard the tendons stood out on his neck. The wide black webbing embedded itself into the Trooper’s neck. A loud cracking, crunching sound penetrated the room as the blond cop went rigid.

The pain from his crushed esophagus momentarily overrode the pleasure/pain of the rape. The fireworks were inside his head now, each explosion wiping out functional parts of his nervous system. Just before his vision faded, it circled in on the sneering face of the Trucker, his hard, handsome features, covered with black stubble and facial hair, twisted in contempt as he spit on his victim one last time.

Then the perverted killer cop fell into a deep cold howling pit, his last connection to life the raging agony in his ass and cock. He never felt the blows the Trucker rained brutally on his face, making his body convulse more violently and work the shaft on which it was impaled even more intensely. He never heard the smacking sound of fist on flesh, the guttural grunting of the alpha as he edged closer to orgasm, the crunch of his nose as his assailant flattened it…

Then the tension snapped. The Trucker’s huge, throbbing cock erupted, ejecting a massive wad of hot cum into the fuckmeat’s shredded colon. Trembling on the edge of hell, the cop felt his ass flooded with molten steel, the sensation of boiling liquid seeming to eat its way through his bowels.

His last living act, involuntary and almost unconscious, was the ejaculation of a thick, ropy jet of semen. He died in nightmarish agony, his dick shooting so hard it felt like it was being flayed inside out, his awareness flickering out in his irreparably damaged brain as the best part of him was pumped out of his cock in white, creamy geysers.

The Trooper’s streams of spunk splashed across the Trucker’s furry torso, smearing with the older man’s sweat to mat the hair on his chest. As the dying punk jerked wildly in his death throes, more sperm spattered warmly and wetly on the underside of the alpha’s strong jaw, almost like a deliberate blast from a water gun. The Trooper continued to writhe and expel a phenomenal amount of cum for another forty-five seconds, hosing himself, his killer, and the bed in general with vast spurts of DNA.

The Trucker grunted and panted, his eyes closed tight, biting his lower lip in the intensity of his own rage-filled orgasm. Too hate-filled to speak, he forced his spewing shaft as far up the corpse’s fuckhole as he could, pumping his hot seed deep into the dead cop’s guts. Groaning loudly, he instinctively contracted his arms, pulling the twitching body up off the soiled sheets.

As he felt his balls empty violently, the Trucker stared into the Trooper’s grotesquely blackened face. The lolling head drooped, the bulging, hemorrhaged eyes rolling back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites were visible. The rogue cop was now nothing but a quivering meat puppet milking the cum out of the stronger man.

Still shuddering in intense ejaculation, the older top let the young blond’s corpse drop back onto the wet sheets, his groin grinding into the dead youth’s asscheeks before he finally relented. Sighing deeply, he slowly and reluctantly let his still-pulsing cock slide out of the punk’s fuckhole. It slipped out on with a slimy, pearly lube of spunk, tinted pink with blood.

“If ya’d been any good, I’da taught ya some tricks,” he muttered, “but you’re just meat.” Reaching to the side, he grabbed the baton. True to his word, he inserted it into the Trooper’s slack asshole, steadily shoving it in more deeply. Any resistance he encountered he overcame with increased force, feeling flesh tear each time he applied more pressure.

By the time he was done, the inch-and-a-half diameter aluminum rod was sunk to the hilt in the blond cop’s ass. The Trucker propped his legs apart, placing a pillow under the corpse’s ass so that the baton was clearly visible from the door.

Still panting and sweating, the Trucker stepped into the bathroom, now utterly sauna-like from the hot shower that he’d left running. It didn’t take long to scrub the thick white crust of dried cum from his wiry chest fur and the finer dark hairs on his flat but rippled belly. Before he did, though, he wiped some of the lawman’s still-moist seed off his hard torso with a hand towel and set it aside.

After cleansing himself to his satisfaction, the Trucker dragged the teen’s corpse to the shower. He’d spent just over an hour dealing with the unwelcome but entertaining intruder; the cunt he’d left on the floor was starting to stiffen. There was just enough flexibility for him to drag the dead meat into the shower, aim the ass into the shower head and pull open the sphincter. After flushing the colon with hot water, he held the corpse upright, still pulling the ass open with his fingers. Despite the physical ordeal he’d been through, both sexual and combative, the teen’s corpse was no strain on his muscles. After allowing the anal cavity to drain, he yanked the rigid body out of the tub and placed it back on the floor.

Retrieving the plunger from behind the toilet, the Trucker wrapped the cum-soaked towel around the handle—then rammed the handle up the stiff’s ass. He made sure to grind it around inside the corpse, smearing the Trooper’s DNA inside the washed-out cavity.

He chuckled silently—at the very least, it would confuse the issue. And the cop’s own ass was pooling with blood leaking from the slashed and shredded rectal tissue. Yeah, there’d be a lot of questions about this one…

His jeans had been left in the bathroom; dark, warm and moist, they clung tightly to his thighs as he forced them on. His socks and boots were just outside the door. First, though, he slipped his t-shirt and leather vest back on, lighting a smoke from the pocket of his shirt.

Clenching the cigarette between his teeth, he sat on the bed next to the Trooper’s still-quivering body. Crossing his legs, he slid his socks and boots on, pausing between each to tap his ash into the dead cop’s drool-soaked face. When he was done, he extinguished his smoke on the dark, dry tongue with a loud sizzle.

The Trucker stepped back to take one last look. He needed to remember this scene; he’d almost died here. The face of the blond lawman was still black and swollen; the belt was too embedded in the neck to remove. The tousled wet sheets, slimy with cum and sweat, were rank with sex. The Trooper’s spread, shuddering legs obscenely thrust the nightstick forward with each convulsion, as if the dead youth was proudly displaying a new dildo.

The Trucker had an idea. He gathered up the Trooper’s uniform. The slacks, the shirt, the boots—he also made sure to get cuffs he’d been bound with. They were still clamped on the radiator, the key in the open cuff that had been around his wrist. After pocketing it, he even got down on hands and knees to retrieve the gun. Not that he’d kill anyone with the gun, of course. He wanted it for intimidation.

It was way too fast a way of death for him to actually employ.

Rolling the cop’s gear into a ball, the older man turned out the lights in the room and quickly slipped out the door in the dark. He strode quickly across the parking lot, his boots thumping on the pavement. Skirting the circle of light shed by the motel office, he slipped unnoticed across the street. The bar was long since closed; the only two vehicle left in the lot were his rig—and a state trooper’s car. Damn. The Trucker scrambled into his cab, shifted into gear, and eased out of the lot and up onto the highway.

He wasn’t done in this area, oh no. There was a least one cunt not too far away who deserved to be taught his value in the world—which was about the same as a used cumrag.

But right now, he needed to go. He needed to be out of the jurisdiction of the state cops, at least for a while.

On the highway, he headed north. He was over the state line in less than an hour; in less than twenty-four, he was on the hunt again.